Sometimes, you find yourself trying to save the life of a creature that, in other circumstances, you’d kill without a second thought.
On a recent morning, I went outside to fill the bird feeders when I noticed a small gray mouse on the patio steps. As I stood nearby, it first looked up at me, trembling. Its forehead bore a bloody, diagonal gash. A moment later, it turned away from me and huddled into itself, trying to hide.
I immediately developed a couple of theories about how the mouse had come to be in its current state. Either one of the neighbors’ cats had attacked it but given up, or one of the local predatory birds -- we have ravens, crows, scrub jays and a red-shouldered hawk -- caught it but dropped it from the trees overhead.
I know the second option sounds less likely, but one afternoon my partner and I were standing and talking in the yard when suddenly a rat fell out of the sky and thudded to the ground near our feet. When we looked up, we saw three crows on a branch overhead, looking sheepish. On another occasion, an injured rat I found in the same location as this mouse was later attacked and killed by a passing scrub jay.
At any rate, I left the mouse alone, hoping that whoever had hurt it would come back to finish the job. A little while later, though, it hopped down from the steps and attempted to run across the patio. It turned out to have an injured leg, which caused it to careen around in circles. Eventually the mouse wore itself out and spent several hours huddled in the shade on the patio.
After it regained some of its strength, the mouse made its way down most of the steps between our patio and garage. As night fell, my partner scooped the mouse into a box with some soft cloth (a company-logo ShamWow, plus a bit of insulation from where he suspected the mouse had probably been living in our garage).
We’ve had mice and rats in our house before -- typically brought in by our cat, who isn’t a very good hunter to begin with and routinely forgets that, as a predator, she’s supposed to kill and eat her prey. If we can shoo them safely back outside we do, but we’ve also killed a few in snap traps baited with peanut butter. We’ve tried live-trapping them, but our local rodents are too smart to be tempted into them. I know: they’re invasive and carry parasites and diseases. But they’re also living creatures, and as long as they stay outdoors, I’d rather they be healthy and happy.
When I checked the box the next morning, I was surprised to find that the mouse was still alive, and much calmer. I hadn’t expected it to survive the night. As I looked down at the tiny creature, watching its alert whiskers twitch, I began to wonder if any wildlife rescue organizations would be able to help it.
I poked around online, and finally landed on the wildlife rescue branch of the Peninsula Humane Society. The woman I spoke with asked about the mouse’s injuries. She didn’t sound hopeful when I told her the extent of them, but she said I could bring the mouse to their facility and they’d do what they could. However, most invasive rodents -- this mouse almost definitely qualified -- would likely be euthanized, she said.
My heart ached with that news, but I knew the mouse was suffering, and neither my partner nor I felt skilled enough to dispatch it ourselves.
At the door of PHS, I handed the woman in blue scrubs the box, and she asked me to fill out a form on a clipboard. “You can call us later, if you’d like to know what happens to this poor little guy,” she said.
I didn’t call. I had a good idea of what would happen, but I just didn’t want it to be real.
