Sunday, December 16, 2007

I'm a murderer.

I killed a mouse with my bare hands Thursday night, put it in a Shakespeare's cup and threw its seizing body out the front door. I didn't feel the least bit guilty--at the time--because:

1) It was loud and slow. Being Darwin's handmaiden is an ugly job, but someone has to do it. I am just Jules striking "down upon thee great vengeance and furious anger".

2) While I am far from being a neat housekeeper (all those threats of cleanliness imbuing godliness), a mouse crapping in my house was too much of an affront to my pride.

I had initially toyed with the idea of buying a live trap, but I guess this is the last nail in the coffin of my compassionate conservatism.

Where does this bloodlust originate? I may have inherited it:

When I was home one weekend, my father beat an armadillo (that had been eating the salad greens from the garden) to death with a baseball bat in our backyard while my horrified sisters and I watched. It bounced at least 2 feet off the ground.

Man of action indeed!


Robyn said...

I always thought armadillos were pretty cute.... don't you just love families.

craiger said...

I agree Robyn. I once raced armadillos, and my armadillo won. We were quite the team!! I'll have to find the picture...

Ed Grow said...


Wow, I guess our fathers do spell death to a wide variety of animals: racoons, peacocks, armadillos, etc. Love.


You did grow up in Texas...Love.

"the" Mrs. Astor said...

Rambo, you are not. I've been thinking of this post for a while. I now believe you did not want to see the mouse in a pit glue squealing, relentlessly. You did the right thing by strangling it. Did it look into your eyes?

Ed Grow said...


Incidentally, yes. A quick death is as good as any I suppose. Love.

Robyn said...

racoons? what?