My Grandmother has annoyed me lately with her constant shuffling to my bedroom door and her cat-like scraping when she wants something from me. It bugs me so much that I dread it whenever I hear the scuffles coming down the hallway.
She had bothered me already when she wanted my help in calling Hong Kong an hour earlier than she said she wanted to call. But this time was different:
"We trapped a mouse. What should we do with it?"
We've had a mouse problem for a while. I've actually seen a mouse (or at least one) running across the floor of the bathroom and my bedroom. They're filthy, I know, and they spread disease, something I have to be worried about because of my Grandmother. But I don't know what to do to combat the problem. Well, there are these cages that I could set up where they'll just be locked up while I could, like, drop them off somewhere. But mousetraps are too barbaric, and glue traps are even worse because they die slowly. With no wherewithall to set up large cages around the house, I did what I usually do when faced with a big problem: I ignored it.
Woke up today seeing a glue trap on the floor underneath the toaster over. One was placed (probably by My Fucking Father) between the refrigerator and the wastebasket in the kitchen. And I'll be damned, that's where the rat was, facing the trash can.
My Grandmother was talking to me about what to do with the mouse. I was going to say you just throw the whole thing in the trash when I saw the most heartbreaking thing ever: I saw the mouse lurch forward, trying to escape the glue. It was alive; Grandmother was wrong and it took her several seconds of looking at it before it moved again. This small, dirty creature was attempting to get out, but it couldn't, try as he might. What could the little guy be thinking? The desperation. ...
"What should we do?" my Grandmother asked. Oh God, please don't ask me. I couldn't believe those fucking things would actually capture a mouse, now she wants me to do something about it? I was just going to, well, ignore it. I had a Coke I wanted to drink tonight; I'll just open the fridge without turning the kitchen light on.
But Grandmother, well, she's stronger than I am. "OK, I know what to do," she said as she went to the back door. Oh God, what are you planning to do? She reached into this basket that's right next to the door and pulled up a wrench. Now, I know what has to be done, or at least could be done because, again, you could've just let it die. It's vermin, and even though it's one of God's creatures, it could make everyone here sick. But I ... I ... can't do that. I can't kill a rat. I just can't.
Like Dakota Fanning when Tom Cruise went into the back to kill Tim Robbins in the remake of War Of The Worlds, I covered my ears as my Grandmother went to kill the poor thing. It wasn't doing anything wrong besides finding our crumbs and tracking its poisonous shit all over the floor. This is why I can't live by myself. One night, I will be asked to be a man, to protect this house from all invaders and threats, and to kill because pests cannot be allowed to live among us. And as much as I agree with the conclusion, the act, the terrifying, permanent act itself is something I will forever be unable to do. I just can't kill a rat.
But my Grandmother can, and did. That's why I need her. Well, one of many reasons why.
Afterwards she needed my help separating the trap from the mouse. Great, now I have sticky hands too. I'm getting this glue shit all over the laptop now.
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