Ode to the Mouse in Mi Cocina

I knew you were little,
I knew you were cute.

I could tell by the tiny nibbles in the food packages
in the fruit crate under the side table in the kitchen.
And by the small, cute-little-mouse size droppings.

The first morning I found a new package of cookies opened.
Vanilla wafer cremes, the kind we used to get as kids,
my favorite here in Mexico.

And a tiny hole in a baggie full of pancake mix,
and a baggie full of flour, neither very sweet,
just tasted and rejected.

I looked everywhere under the counters for you.
Where were you hiding?
I would have merely chased you out of the kitchen
with a broom.
And we could have avoided the whole, ugly drama.

So I salvaged some of the cookies from the far ends
of the package ( in case you are carrying a dread disease),
and packed away the other things in a plastic storage box.

I only left a couple of cans,
and an unopened jar of peanut butter
in the crate.
But then yesterday, I bought some Soymilk, one carton plain,
and one carton with jugo de durazno (peach).
And thoughtlessly stowed those down there.

This morning, I found a mess of soymilk in the crate and on the floor.
I think you preferred the soymilk with juice.
It had a slightly bigger hole. I don’t blame you.
It’s really good.

So today in town, after I had the dog clipped
(a 2 1/2 hour ordeal involving me sitting on a cement floor
holding Buddy in place)
and while I was waiting for my car to be washed,
(clean dog, clean car),
I wandered into Foco Loco (a hardware stare),
and asked what they have to entrapar un raton pequino.

The clerk, laughing, went and got a package with a picture
on the front, showing a cartoon mouse
stuck in some sticky goo in a plastic tray,
and trying to extract a leg. Not funny.

A picture on the back shows a hand dropping the tray with
a stuck mouse into a plastic bag.
I made a face and asked the guy if the mouse would be alive or dead
when I found him in the morning.
He asked if I were afraid. “Tiene miedo?”

“No exactemente,” I answered.
How could I explain my aversion to torturing you?.
He said, “por la manana, muerto.” and indicated finished with a
sweep of his hands.

I knew what I was in for when I put the tray in the crate and went upstairs
But the apples making sauce on the stove (they don’t sell applesauce here)
needed to cook a little more.
So I left them on low, thus had to go back down a little later.

I knew when I reached the bottom off the stairs, from the scratching coming
from the kitchen,
that I had a problem.
I peeked in the window to see how big you were.

You were little.
You were cute.
And you were struggling in the goo.
I put the applesauce, which was burnt, in the fridge, trying to ignore you.
You got quiet.
I bent over and looked you straight in your sad eyes.
Your head was stuck in the goo.

“Lo siento mucho,” I told you, with heavy heart,
as I dropped the tray into
a plastic bag and put it carefully out in the yard.

Maybe you’ll get away during the night, I thought.
Most likely, a mapache, nasty creature, will find you
and put you out of your misery.
He would likely suffer from the goo.
But you would be gone when I get up.

Epilogue

In the morning, when I finally got the courage to look,
you were gone!
There was a little hole chewed in the plastic bag.
Maybe a mapache chewed through and ate you
right out of the goo.

But I prefer to think you nibbled a hole in the bag,
and the plastic gave you enough traction to pull yourself out
and run off into the jungle.

On another note:

WHALE WATCHING IN CHACALA BAY

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