The cat watched on, mildly curious, as the round mouse tried frantically to get beneath the stove in the kitchen. Its foot was caught in a mousetrap and so it found itself in the unfortunate position of both excruciating leg pain, sheer terror, and the inability to get away to safety because of the bulky trap.

The creature had dragged the mousetrap from across the dining room where it had set off the trap beneath the cupboard that held sheet music.

The trap bounced and clanged against the stove. Scritching and scratching, the mouse strained harder.

Mom brought me some gloves, not thrilled with the scene.

I’m not afraid of mice. Knowing from experience that they are horribly destructive critters, I don’t fret much when I have to empty a dead one out of a trap. A live one, however, was different. I can’t kill anything. Dad would probably have taken it outside and stomped on it or shot it with a pistol, but I just can’t kill anything.

Cupping the trap in my hand, the mouse all but snapping its tiny leg off in abject panic as I picked it up, I released the catch on the trap and held the mouse in my hands. Its eyes were huge, seemingly taking up its whole head.

This was a seriously frightened critter. First the snapping trap, then the curious cat, then the pain of dragging the trap across the floor to escape only to find that impossible, then being picked up and held by a giant.

The mouse promptly bit at the glove. The glove was thick enough that it was nothing. Cupping my hands to form a solid, dark cage, I went to the door. At first, I swear I could feel the mouse’s heart exploding through its tiny body. I walked outside, keeping my hands still. The mouse stopped fretting and moving about, and I could feel it settle down into a little ball.

Far across the yard and away from buildings, at the edge of where the mowed lawn turned to tall grass, I knelt down and opened up my hands. The mouse, still huddled in a little ball, paused for the briefest of moments before literally bouncing and hopping across the grass into the dark.

I’ve caught and picked up mice before, though I think everything I call a “mouse” really isn’t a mouse. Some of these critters have long bodies, some are round, some are brown and some are soft gray. Some have short, thicker tails while others have long, whip-like tails. Some scurry low on the ground, some follow narrow paths, and some, like this one, seem to bounce and hop across the grass like a kind of miniature kangaroo. Some make a lot of chirping noises, while others are silent.

I joked later with dad that the mouse probably felt its freedom for about five minutes before some other animal out there had a little snack, but that’s not my problem.

Later that evening, I scolded the cat, discussing various concepts of “being useful” and “far too over-fed.” I gave him slightly less rations for supper, pointing out that instead of fresh mice steaks, he could have some nasty dry food.

Later, I found him batting around one of his stuffed mice. We’re both pathetic. Neither of us can kill them.