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Never Name Your Quarry

It was just before Christmas, as I was out working in my garage one evening, that a little mouse surprised me by coming out to see what I was doing. We chatted briefly, but he seemed rather shy and scurried back under one of the storage cabinets.

For the rest of that evening and the next several as well, I would see him darting about the garage perimeter doing whatever it is mice do. I hadn't noticed any box chewing or other mouse related damage, and wondered aloud during out frequent "chats" if he was living alone or whether he had plans to start a family. He wasn't very forthcoming. Somewhere along in here I also had the questionable sense to begin referring to him as Wilbur.

Two evenings ago I told Wilbur that it was high time that he packed up and went back outside. I just didn't feel I could trust him to live alone and not go and die someplace inaccessible and stink the place up. But I suspected he really wasn't listening to me.

Yesterday, I set the traps, hoping to nip the mouse-fest in the bud. An hour later, Wilbur was lured by the irresistible power of peanut butter to his untimely demise. A full day later, the reset traps remain empty. Good news in that I really don't have a mouse issue, but I'm now feeling bad that I killed Wilbur. After all, he lived up to his end and was living harmlessly alone. I just couldn't bring myself to trust him. His silence just wasn't convincing.

So I offer this advice as we head into the new year. Communication really is important to relationships. Oh, and never name the thing you intend to hunt - especially if you have a marshmallow interior.