There is no mouse rescue
These were Mr. A's words when I told him, almost (but not quite) a little tearfully, about the baby mouse whose life I tried to save last night by the side of our road.
The sun was going down and I had both dogs out for a leisurely stroll – the evil, insanity-inspiring winds having finally died down long enough for the world to grow warm and pleasant again – when Tater, ever the kind-hearted Samaritan, stopped to aid a soul in peril.
It was a tiny baby mouse. He picked it up in his mouth, then set it down gently at the base of a clump of poppies and looked up at me like, "Well? Are you going to take care of this?"
I couldn't resist picking it up, even though I know it could be riddled with parasites, diseases, Hanta virus, etc. etc. It was so cute, and it was obviously in distress, struggling to hide in the grass but unable to get very far. It kept looping around in a circle, listing to one side. It looked like one of its arms was broken.
Anyway ... long story short, I stood there breathing on her for awhile, trying to help her get warm again (she was a little wet from being in a dog's mouth). Then I put her back down. I have a long-standing policy against intervening when tiny wild things appear to be dying, because I've learned that trying to help them usually only prolongs their suffering. With creatures like that, they either get well and go back to their lives, or they die, and nothing I've ever tried to do has seemed to make any difference at all in which thing happens.
We walked to the end of the road and saw that there are three new horses in the little oak-dotted meadow where the wildflower preserve begins. I also saw two rabbits sitting upright nibbling leaves, two brown doves cooing on a telephone wire, and two deer standing chin-deep in a beautiful field of grass. We stood on the rocks where the creek bank fell away in the flood two years ago and looked into the creek – already dry. Two ducks flew over our heads, quacking softly to each other as they looked back and forth at something on the ground (maybe us?).
Suddenly it was almost dark. Walking back home, I couldn't resist checking to see if the little mouse was still where I had left her. She was. I picked her up again, determined to take her home and will her back to health ... walked about fifty yards, then realized ... even if I could make her well again, what then? I don't want a mouse as a pet – I'm always trying to get rid of mice around here! I considered taking her back to the field and letting her go, but as I watched her becoming more animated as she snuggled into the warmth of my hand it occurred to me that maybe she wasn't being flooded with relief and gratitude for my concern and good intentions – more likely she was terrified (she was a wild animal, after all) and trying to get away. So I walked back and left her where I'd found her.
On our walk this morning I knew before we even left the house that I would look for her again, but Tater beat me to it. He went straight to the spot and started sniffing. I saw the tiny little dark shape under the leaves and knew she hadn't made it. She was lying curled up on her side right where I'd left her. This time when I touched her fur, she didn't move at all.
I've had experiences like this all my life, starting with an injured robin who died in a shoebox in my parents' bedroom sometime before I even started school, but it still somehow always surprises me how different a body feels when it is alive, as compared with when it's dead. Having contact like that with a body that no longer has anyone living inside it really makes it clear that I Am Not My Body.
With all the physical torment my body's been through in the last few weeks, that is somehow kind of reassuring to remember.
Tonight I was telling Mr. A about the mouse, and lamenting my inability to do anything to help her. I told him about my policy, then immediately started questioning myself. "It's not like I think you should never try to help," I said. "I mean, if I found a baby fawn, I could call fawn rescue."
"There is no mouse rescue," he said.
It reminds me of a teaching I read last year that struck me ... I don't have to like everything that happens, but accepting the fact that sometimes I don't get to choose what's going to happen, and stopping fighting with myself about wanting things to be different than they are – that makes all the difference. Just because I don't like what's happening doesn't mean I have to struggle against it. I can not like it, and accept it, all at the same time. Grant me the serenity, etc. There is some peace in that.
The sun was going down and I had both dogs out for a leisurely stroll – the evil, insanity-inspiring winds having finally died down long enough for the world to grow warm and pleasant again – when Tater, ever the kind-hearted Samaritan, stopped to aid a soul in peril.
It was a tiny baby mouse. He picked it up in his mouth, then set it down gently at the base of a clump of poppies and looked up at me like, "Well? Are you going to take care of this?"
I couldn't resist picking it up, even though I know it could be riddled with parasites, diseases, Hanta virus, etc. etc. It was so cute, and it was obviously in distress, struggling to hide in the grass but unable to get very far. It kept looping around in a circle, listing to one side. It looked like one of its arms was broken.
Anyway ... long story short, I stood there breathing on her for awhile, trying to help her get warm again (she was a little wet from being in a dog's mouth). Then I put her back down. I have a long-standing policy against intervening when tiny wild things appear to be dying, because I've learned that trying to help them usually only prolongs their suffering. With creatures like that, they either get well and go back to their lives, or they die, and nothing I've ever tried to do has seemed to make any difference at all in which thing happens.
We walked to the end of the road and saw that there are three new horses in the little oak-dotted meadow where the wildflower preserve begins. I also saw two rabbits sitting upright nibbling leaves, two brown doves cooing on a telephone wire, and two deer standing chin-deep in a beautiful field of grass. We stood on the rocks where the creek bank fell away in the flood two years ago and looked into the creek – already dry. Two ducks flew over our heads, quacking softly to each other as they looked back and forth at something on the ground (maybe us?).
Suddenly it was almost dark. Walking back home, I couldn't resist checking to see if the little mouse was still where I had left her. She was. I picked her up again, determined to take her home and will her back to health ... walked about fifty yards, then realized ... even if I could make her well again, what then? I don't want a mouse as a pet – I'm always trying to get rid of mice around here! I considered taking her back to the field and letting her go, but as I watched her becoming more animated as she snuggled into the warmth of my hand it occurred to me that maybe she wasn't being flooded with relief and gratitude for my concern and good intentions – more likely she was terrified (she was a wild animal, after all) and trying to get away. So I walked back and left her where I'd found her.
On our walk this morning I knew before we even left the house that I would look for her again, but Tater beat me to it. He went straight to the spot and started sniffing. I saw the tiny little dark shape under the leaves and knew she hadn't made it. She was lying curled up on her side right where I'd left her. This time when I touched her fur, she didn't move at all.
I've had experiences like this all my life, starting with an injured robin who died in a shoebox in my parents' bedroom sometime before I even started school, but it still somehow always surprises me how different a body feels when it is alive, as compared with when it's dead. Having contact like that with a body that no longer has anyone living inside it really makes it clear that I Am Not My Body.
With all the physical torment my body's been through in the last few weeks, that is somehow kind of reassuring to remember.
Tonight I was telling Mr. A about the mouse, and lamenting my inability to do anything to help her. I told him about my policy, then immediately started questioning myself. "It's not like I think you should never try to help," I said. "I mean, if I found a baby fawn, I could call fawn rescue."
"There is no mouse rescue," he said.
It reminds me of a teaching I read last year that struck me ... I don't have to like everything that happens, but accepting the fact that sometimes I don't get to choose what's going to happen, and stopping fighting with myself about wanting things to be different than they are – that makes all the difference. Just because I don't like what's happening doesn't mean I have to struggle against it. I can not like it, and accept it, all at the same time. Grant me the serenity, etc. There is some peace in that.
2 Comments:
You and the mouse are one.
That is very sad. I wish there was mouse rescue, too... I can relate, though. I've tried to help a pigeon off the road (no pigeon rescue either), and a ferret. There was ferret rescue, though, and he was fine. :)
Post a Comment
<< Home