The mouse is dead.
When I go to the 7-11 to buy an Aero bar, I never fear that a metal bar will descend and smash my neck to bits. This is a fear that mice must live with every day.
I tricked the little mouse that was in my apartment. He thought that I had just left a little mouse-sized Aero bar lying on the floor by accident. He didn't notice that it was on a pedal or, if he did, he didn't expect that when he rested his mousey weight on that pedal it would cause the metal to whizz down upon his vertebrae and bring his life to end.
There were warning signs: The drawing of a mouse on the trap's base. The cheese-shaped pedal.
All he could see was the chocolate.
It was a swift death, so I don't feel too bad about it. But I do feel like he deserved a more respectful burial than I gave him. It's too late. The garbarge trucks came this morning and carted his Old-Navy-bagged body off to the dump.
Look: You didn't belong here. Did you not hear the decree? Mouse and human are not to live together.
I know winter is coming. But we have a nice shed in the backyard. You could have lived there with the bicycles and chaise longues and the old fridge and the rakes. You could have had a family. A long life.
If you hadn't hidden from me, I might have been able to do something for you. I could have put you in a box and taken you somewhere. Where? I don't know. I'm just talking. Where would you have wanted to go? Other than my kitchen, I mean.
Maybe I should do my dishes more often. Maybe I was just encouraging you. Maybe I should have bought one of those humane traps and taken you to the Don Valley.
It could have been worse. I've seen worse. You're not the first. I certainly will never use glue traps again, no siree.
I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry. I wish you luck. It's silly, but I do.