A change of perspective can be a humbling experience. It can also remind us that all perspectives are, in essence, very subjective interpretations of circumstances, as various as our background, psychological and emotional baggage, cultures and, perhaps especially our fears.

I used to housesit in a place where a couple of squirrels decided to check in as bed & breakfast guests. There was a small cubby in the wall, next to my bed, where I had stacked sweaters. One morning, as I began to select a sweater from the pile, I discovered two brown eyes staring into mine, half in shock and half in anger. After this, I removed my favorite sweaters and left the rest for the squirrels to keep warm. I also stored a few shoes in that cubby, so I began to announce myself and knock gently before entering each day. My guests seemed to appreciate their host’s special attention and we cohabitated peacefully through the winter. They left in the spring, never to be seen again. I missed them.

That was nearly twenty years ago. I have a place of my own now. We have lived here for over eight years. The neighborhood is well guarded by several massive, expert hunter felines. My younger cat shared this home until he died, last September, at the ripe age of twenty-one. I assume his presence made it inhospitable to rodent guests. The best mouser in town moved away a few months ago. Last week, I found certain evidence of rodent activity.

In a matter of twenty-four hours, I went from being glad I could provide a warm home to a little creature to considering the best way to trap it (them?) and release it far away, to wanting it dead because it had walked all over my art supplies and bread board. I am not afraid of germs; I have even been known to drink out of a glass of water after one of my cats had stolen a sip or two, yet I have caught myself rinsing or washing every single utensil I have used over the past few days… just in case.

In addition to this, our dog, who happens to be a Rat Terrier, took notice of our friend when it began causing a racket somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. At night, Mathias has been jumping off the bed, running back and forth around the house, coming back to bed for a few moments and repeating the routine, which begins at about three thirty in the morning. His Ratter programming is clearly intact, even though he has not been exposed to this sort of experience for the three years he has been alive. I must say that he is quite a beautiful, though annoying, hunter.

For a short while, I wondered if our guest might not be significantly larger than a mouse. I had cross paths with a rat on our street during one of my morning walks only a few weeks ago. The noise between the kitchen and bathroom was formidable, too much so for a tiny creature to produce. Yesterday, as I considered these new circumstances, I realized that I could now understand why people feel so invaded by rodents. It is, indeed, an invasion. They are extremely smart and gorgeous and, in many ways, harmless, but I can see the difficulty and risk of sharing a home with them. As I contemplated this, a small, little gray face appeared in the corner of the kitchen counter. “At least it’s not a rat”, I thought. I did not feel so angry anymore. I smiled at it and it waited a while before returning to its hiding place.

Roderick purchased two small traps that are designed to capture rodents without killing them. I thought this was pretty cool and remembered that a former colleague had been very successful using these to escort mice out of our offices. We set them up last night. This set my mind in motion again, wondering how terrified the poor creature might feel once trapped. I could hardly sleep… and then the dog started his circus act and I wished the mouse would go away, by any means.

The day went by uneventfully. I thought Mathias had likely made eye contact this morning and the little thing decided it could not live with a lunatic Rat Terrier. For a moment, I also thought the mouse had run for its life when it heard what could sound like a cousin or sibling being strangled to death when Mathias played with a squeaky toy for over a half hour. What a cool way to get rid of mice. Could it be that simple?

By the time supper came, the house was still silent and the temperature outside dropping slightly. I caught myself keeping an eye on the corner where I had seen the mouse the day before and paying attention to any noise, wondering where our tiny guest might be. Now I am concerned. It did not come home for dinner. I did not trap it or poison it, so who did? Is it suffering somewhere? Why did it not come home for dinner?

It is past eight o’clock and there is no sign or sound from the kitchen. I felt invaded when my food and health seemed threatened. Living with rodents takes its toll on our pride. I suppose even million dollar mansions can have them. They are as good a place as any for scavengers. Now I feel the emptiness of one less creature to love. Should it show up at three-thirty in the morning, like a recalcitrant teenager with an attitude, I will probably “hate” it all over again.

In the end, the rodent-human connection is purely emotional. It triggers in us a powerful feeling of vulnerability. Something found its way into our home, our territory. It is stealing our food and soiling our things. It is dramatically smaller, yet dramatically present. I toy with the idea of creating a form of accommodation for rodents in house building codes; a sort of isolated chamber that would cause no threat to humans and provide a sanitary home for the little scavengers we despise, admire and fear, but that truly play a role in the equilibrium of the world.

I hope my little friend is alright... somewhere else.

Slainte!