I hold a freshly-killed mouse on a teaspoon as I write these words. And the cat is sitting at my feet, awaiting the return of his still-warm playmate. Once again stepping in between hunter and hunted, I interfere, employing my power as a human with thumbs and silverware.

When I first noticed it on the kitchen floor, my chest imploded with pillow fights of sorrow...then acceptance and peace, a blushing skyward ring of love. Thoughts of good and evil battered the brain, scolded the cat praised the cat scolded the cat praised the cat, pitied the mouse blamed the mouse it's your fault for being slow and simple it's your dharma to sacrifice yourself for the cat's folly, you poor beautiful creature, how I want to bring the roundness back to shrivelling eyes and reflex to tiny dangling paws which hang over the spoon's edge like soup noodles...like the record skipping on the label song faded and forgotten.

And this agile friend sleek black and white stares me down with absurdity and truth, a matter of perspective is all that stands between us--What does one do with a dead mouse?
chuck it in the backyard?
flush it down the toilet?
throw it in the compost?
go outside in the rain and bury it in a tiny grave marked with pennies and dandelions to be dug up and eaten holes bored to brains by undesireables such as those found underground?
What does one do with a dead mouse?
So I ask the cat.

And cat will show me, ignorant human bent on cherishing a figure of the past, once so cuddly and precious, now a sack of tomorrow's dirt. Cat says hand it over. And I give one last blessing before I do, praising the honor of sacrifice,
the tremendous power of nature
and the grace of letting go.

back    home    next