The dominion over other animals is absolute.
It is God-ordained.
The Bible says so.
I stood in a corner of my living room for a few minutes. I had just been startled – first by a big cockroach, then by a very tiny mouse. But for pride and determination to not be a girly-girl, I would have hopped on the couch. The two critters had to be dealt with.
The mouse should be easy pickings. Six months ago, I had a discovered a mouse was living in my kitchen. The next day, I bought a mouse trap, slathered cheese and hotdog all over the trap and then wiped down my kitchen to ensure no other morsel of food was available. The next morning, I found the mouse dead, caught in the trap’s death grip. With a sense of accomplishment, I was regaled my co-workers with my mouse tale. One would assume it was a dragon I slew rather than a teeny tiny mouse. J, the girl with a cubicle next to mine was not pleased. She was an animal lover, and by animal lover, I mean the girl loved all creatures. She was the type to gently shoo a bee out of her window, or tenderly escort a daddy long legs on her palm to the outdoors, or call cows ‘moo-moos’ or coo to birds.
“Why did you not use a humane trap? That was cruel,” she said.
I was taken aback. I expected congratulatory thumps on my back and ‘well dones.’
“It’s a rodent not a dog.”
“It should have been caught and released outside.”
“I don’t think so. Unless that mouse was paying rent, it deserved what it got.”
At the local Wal-Mart, I purchased the exact brand I had gotten previously – and ‘roach spray. I already had a wasp and hornet spray, which I used commando-style to eliminate wasps in the nests around my half of my rented duplex. I was bug-free at the moment. Except for the damn ‘roach.
The next morning, I went to inspect the trap. The bread and hotdog I had carefully placed on the trap was gone. The trap was intact. No mouse. A fluke, I thought, and put another piece of bread on the trap before going to work. No such luck that day with the trap. The same thing happen the next day, and the next and the next.
For two weeks, I fed the mouse, placing some enticing morsel after another to no avail. I had become some sort of rodent butler. I decided to test the trap myself to see if it still worked. I jiggled the lever and bit and then it clamped down on my hand. I yelped. It hurt like a sombitch. That mouse had to die. I purchased another trap. For another week, nothing happened. The food just disappeared. The bastard was not only living rent-free, it was enjoying a home-cooked meal. That damn mouse had to die. So I got rat poison.
Meanwhile, I had not seen the ‘roach in a while. I was beginning to think it was gone until it showed up on my kitchen wall. I grabbed the insect spray, crouched by my patio door and held out the can like it was a semi-automatic weapon. Then I fired. The ‘roach flew off into my living room. I followed carefully holding the can in front of me like a handgun. It had vanished. I pushed the couch, moved the coffee table and shook the curtains. Nothing. I gave up and went back to cleaning the kitchen. A while later, the roach staggered out from under my television stand. It stumbled around for a while in front of the television then slowly made its way to the kitchen, obviously to get under the fridge. I made a beeline for the insect spray that I had stashed under the sink and let him have it. It twisted and turned and flailed its appendages and then died. One down.
I set up the rat poison and went off for a weekend. The mouse feasted on the poison for days, and I, the butler, was left with teal-colored droppings to clean up. On the eve of the fourth day, I was watching television when out of the corner of my eye, something moved. I was startled to see the very evasive squatter staggering around the very same spot the ‘roach had done its death dance. Its stomach was bloated and it walked slow heavy steps. It crawled under the television stand. De javu. I felt kinda bad for the little creature as it heaved and moved around the living. I wanted to kill it quickly to take it out of its misery but I did not want to risk blood or mouse goo splatter. So I finished watching my show and went to bed, hoping to hunt for its carcass in the morning. The next day, my squatter had left me one last surprise. The creature had crawled on my boyfriend’s favorite accent cushion and expired, its limbs stretched out in a dramatic fashion – like a true diva. After that, I had only one more butler duty.