9 minute read
S. Cole Grzywinski
Red, White, Brown, Grey
S. Cole Grzywinski
Advertisement
The story I am about to recount happened some years ago in the middle of spring. The day
was beautiful, even for someone like me who loves the cold. It was the kind of weather that
touched something in you, it reminded you of days when you were little, running through
the grass barefoot. Clear blue sky above and a constant breeze wafting by. It was, in short,
the kind of day that made you happy to be alive. It was on a day like this that I was walking
home from work, earbuds in, enjoying the sun. I usually come home from work grumpy but
today I was in a good mood. I let my arm swing casually at my side as I rounded the corner
of the neighboring house and proceeded down the driveway. The lock on thegate to the
backyard has been finicky for years and it took a couple tugs to get it open. I spun in place
and closed it as I passed through. The yard is of decent size, with stone taking up about 1/3
of the space, and most of that is taken up by the old hot tub, which sits unused under a
crumbling roof. Trotting up to the back porch, I climbed the stairs and approached the
door.
I stopped where I was, idly pausing my music. There was a mouse lying on the mat
in front of the door. Our back door is a burgundy red with a screen top half and glass
bottom half, and it sits on a grey stone step. In the winter the stone is ice cold, even with
socks. The mouse lay there, it wasn’t moving. I slowly approached, leaning in to examine it.
The mouse was a beautiful light brown color with a furry white belly and two large black
eyes which were squeezed shut. It was lying on its side, a small smear of red around its
mouth like lipstick, it wasn’t lipstick. This was an all too familiar sight. My mother hates
mice, she hasthe exterminator put poison around the house to get rid of them. It’s a
common practice and one that I understand completely, I just wish she didn’t use poison.
Do you know what rat poison does to a mouse? When ingested, the poison causes the
insides of the animal that consumes it to slowly weaken, and then disintegrate. In layman’s
terms, they melt. Soon they begin to suffocate on their own blood as their internal organs
begin to turn into a thick liquid. This whole process takes place over the course of a few
days. It is a slow, painful, horrible way to die, one I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. My
mother hates mice, I do not. I love mice, ever since I was a child I’ve loved them. My favorite
books growing up all had mice as the heroes, and to this day Istill see them as little heroes
themselves.
The mouse coughed. I quickly knelt down next to it, hands hovering, uselessly
unsure of what to do. I always get like this, every time I find a dying mouse. Sometimes I
find them inside the house, sometimes outin the yard, they’re always dying though. The
last healthy mouse I saw on our property was years ago, back when we still had a playset in
our backyard instead of an empty patch of dirt and grass. I remember my mother
screaming when she saw it, flitting about like a butterfly, or a moth, yelling for someone to
do something about it as it hopped around. I remember chasing after it, captured by its
adorable appearance as it unhurriedly hopped away on its long slender hind paws before
disappearing through a fence into the bushes. That was the last time. Since then I have
fallen into a kind of ritual whenever I find a dying mouse. Back on the porch, I carefully
step over the small pile of fur and enter the house. I grab two things, my large grey coat and
two clean white napkins. The coat is a formality, I don’t precisely remember why I started
wearing it whenever I dealt with these kinds of things. I think it was out of respect, like
wearing black at a funeral, or maybe I just thought it would make me look cool while doing
an unpleasant job. The coat itself is old and stained at the bottom, but it’s warm and heavy.
It’s too big for me actually, the coattails reaching to my ankles, it’s the same coat I wear
every Halloween when I’m out scaring children and handingout candy. The napkins are far
more practical. I return to the back porch, ritual objects acquired. The mouse hasn’t moved,
but if I look closely, I can still see its small labored breaths by the rise and fall of its sides. As
gently as I can, I use a napkin to pick up the mouse. Holding it in my hands now I can feel its
body, its soft and limber, it doesn’t weigh a thing. It’s so light that it’s barely putting enough
weight on the napkin to stop it from blowing away in the breeze. In my hands, still laying
on it’s side, it looks like it’s laying on a blanket of white silk sheets. The blood still leaking
from its mouth standing out strikingly against the white of the napkin. Up close, I can’t help
but notice that even dying the mouse is still cute, beautiful even. The combination big eyes
and soft fur doing its job, even when marred with blood. I carefully descend the stairs of
the porch and walk over to the shell of the old hot tub, which hadn’t been used in years, and
set the mouse on the cover. I stand there watching it, it’s labored breaths still coming out
slow and methodical. A soft breeze blows through the yard, lightly ruffling the mouse’s fur.
Birds are singing in the trees, the cloud dappled sunlight slowly marching across the grass.
In a word, it’s peaceful. I feel awkward and out of place in this scene, ruining the nirvana.
It’s at this point I begin to wonder how the mouse got to our doorstep. Like I said, it can
take days for a mouse to die after ingesting poison, and it must have eaten it in our house.
As I stand there watching the mouse, my mind begins to wander.
After eating the poison, the mouse would have continued its business as usual, at
least at first. Scurrying through the walls and basement, avoiding the scary humans and
looking for food. After a day the pain must have set in, the first indication that something
was wrong, but even then, the mouse would still go about its mouse business. Around day
two it would start to die. This is where panic would set in, ever growing pain, the taste of
blood. The mouse would try to escape from what was hurting it, maybe that’s why it went
outside. Cats are known to patrol the neighborhood and the mouse must have known that, I
assume, but it went outside anyway. It must have stumbled through the grass, vision slowly
fading. Surrounded by light, sounds, and smells, it must have been hell, all the while the
pain was growing. Why did it head back towards the house? It could have curled up under a
bush. Maybe the house was its home, maybe it was born there, and in its last moments that
was where it instinctively tried to return. But why our door? There are steps, it must have
hauled itself up each one, one at a time. I can see it, the mouse, dragging itself across the
porch. Coughing blood, half blind, heroically trying to find a place where it could be safe.
There, in front of the grey slab standing like a tombstone, it finally collapsed. Seeking
refuge at the place that killed it. Only to have its death disturbed by a giant.
I rouse from my daydreaming. The mouse is still on its side on the white napkin. The
rhythmic rise and fall have stopped. I poke it with my finger but there is no reaction. The
mouse is dead. I scoop up the corpse with the napkin and walk over to the opposite end to
the yard. Using myarm like a catapult I unceremoniously toss the body over the fence.
Respect is for the living, none is owed to a corpse. I hope it will be a nice snack for
something. My duty done, I head back inside, hanging my coat back where it belongs.
Heading upstairs I turn on the game console, intending to consume my attention. The
mouse is still on my mind, I can’t help but feel sad.
Why should I be sad? It’s just a mouse after all, they eat food and spread disease and
contaminate things and gnaw and reproduce and infest. Sure, I read some books when I
was an ignorant little kid where they were heroes but that doesn’t change reality. And
another thing, where there’s one mouse there is always more. There are probably
hundreds around the neighborhood, and more constantly being made. It’s like being upset
over a fly dying, or a rock, or a blade of grass, or people. There are millions of them
everywhere, the lose of one is completely inconsequential. Try saying that at a funeral. The
death of a mouse is an objective net positive for the world. Why on earth should I be sad
about a cute little mouse dragging himself along, gasping for air, chocking on his own blood.
Overcoming who knows how many trials over the course of his short life. Never giving up,
trying to find something that could save him, when nothing possibly could. Feeling his life
slowly ebb away, murdered by the hand of an unseen foe, for reasons that he lacked the
mental faculty to understand, by people who would not even be aware of his passing.
Collapsing,spent of all strength, where no one could possibly overlook him. His corpse
serving as a statement that he lived and died. Only to be found by me, a stupid kid that
loves mice, who’s only reward is watching him die.
The game isn’t helping, I turn it off and go back downstairs.
Winter will be ending soon; spring is one its way. That means that all the animals
will be coming out of their holes and will be out and about. That means mice too. When
spring comes there will be shining sun, singing birds, soft breezes, and more dead mice for
me to find, more white napkins, more grey coats, more red pools. The horrible thing about
all of this is that in a twisted way I’m almost looking forward to it. My solemn task of
cleaning out the bodies is one of the few things that gets an emotional reaction out of me
anymore, my sadness at the sight of the small motionless clumps is almost therapeutic in a
way. It confirms I still have a heart. What I fear is the day I stand over one of the corpses of
my little heroes and feel no sorrow, no pang of regret. How abominable of me, validating
my emotional wellbeing using dead animals. If it was funny it would be a joke.
The mouse, who is the root of all my angst, has nothing to say on the matter. He’s
been dead for over three years.