There are mice in my garage. And I don’t care.
I was actually alerted to this fact when, bleary eyed, I stumbled into my kitchen yesterday morning to find a small, ash colored field mouse curled up dead on the floor. It didn’t alarm me much (if it had been a cockroach, that’d have been a whole different scenario), but I was a bit sad. I think one of the cats probably had a bit too much fun with the poor thing and smooshed it to death.
So I did what any non-rodent petrified person would do and, rather than shrieking to wake up the rest of the house, I took an old tea towel and gingerly picked him up, wrapped him neatly, and carried him to the garage to lay him gently to rest in the Big Trash Can in the Sky (almost).
When I opened the door, I saw three little furry puffs, huddled behind the dog food, staring nervously at me. They scattered almost as quickly as I noticed them, disappearing somewhere behind the luggage and the clothes I’ve been meaning to donate to Goodwill for about three years.
I said a quick little something to the sky on behalf of my silent little stowaway, and put him in the trash. I was even careful to nestle him among the plastic so he didn’t tumble into a dark corner somewhere.
For a moment, I exercised my anthropomorphism and reflected on whether the mouse’s family and friends would be missing him, wondering what happened after he so bravely found a way to venture into the Warm House in search of dinner or something. I wondered if they realized what had happened, that their garagemate had met his doom in my kitchen only to be shipped off to the trash. I wondered if they were worried they’d be next.
So I did what any completely sane woman would do, and I gathered an old pillow, pulled off the cover, and used a box cutter to tear up a bit of the fluff and make a pile of warm fuzziness that just might make a human’s rendition of a mouse house. I took a handful of dog kibble and stuck it down inside. Then I tucked the pillow back in the corner where my pocket-sized tenants would be sure to find it.
I know they’re rodents, ok? I know this. But my garage is nothing more to me than a disorganized storage mess. It’s brimming with forgotten gadgets and books I can’t bear to part with but will never again read. It’s crammed with boxes I don’t even remember. They’re just more like accidental appendages, trailing behind me from move to move like toilet paper on a tennis shoe.
To them, it’s a warm(ish) shelter from the cold, somewhere to be relatively safe from harm, a place to be with their family and huddle together. I’m ok with sharing that with them. They’re not hurting anyone, most especially me, and I’ve got the room to let. After all, isn’t a little comfort and shelter something we all seek?
