I just cleaned up a dead mouse off of the cement in the backyard. It was cute. It was little. And it was very, very still.
When I first noticed him, all of the kids were running around the lawn, screaming/playing, oblivious to the circle of life lesson unfolding in the yard. What to do? He was so interesting to look at, but gross at the same time. Who could I share this moment with?
I didn’t want Curious Dean to touch him. I didn’t want High Pitched Kate to scream. And I was not in the mood for a full-out funeral service complete with a 21 gun salute if Andy saw him. That’s when Luke sauntered by. He was looking pensive and I thought, he’s just the right age to quietly observe this little body and all it’s tiny detail before I, well…dispose of him.
I was right. He was fascinated. He didn’t touch, just looked and observed like a thoughtful four year old should. The beady eyes, the long tail, the gray fur that looked softer than a bunny’s. Sigh. Poor thing.
That’s when I took a deep breath, reached my hand into my prepared two-ply grocery sack and picked him up. Luke ushered me out to the big trash can where we said our final goodbyes.
Soap, hot water, more soap…
Since when did “animal control” fall under “motherhood?”