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This is a tale of two critters: a mouse and a possum.
One must die. The other one just might be me (sort of).
As usual, let me explain.
In my continuing spiritual search, I’m studying all avenues of redemption and soul destination and, well, whatever. When the time comes to cross over to The Other Side, I’m thinking I might need all the spiritual insurance I can get.
So, I’ve been reading my Bible, tracts on Judaic truths, the Koran, the ancient Greeks, Buddhism mindfulness books, Francis Bacon, Voltaire, Nietzsche and anybody else who has something to say about this thing called life, as Prince noted during “Let’s Go Crazy.”
What I’m realizing, among a lot of things, is that the idea of reincarnation should make me especially worried. Specifically, I’m looking at a possible sentence of centuries in the hot spot just for all the bad things I did in Mrs. Schultz’s study hall periods at Strongsville Senior High School. I mean, I really tormented the living daylights out of her. (But, then again, who busts someone for reading National Lampoon? Censorship!)
OK, still with me? We’re getting there.
You see, the other day I was feeling too good, so I figured something weird was bound to happen. And, honest, within a half-hour, weirdness did indeed strike.
It began with a dog barking ferociously right outside my window, which I opened to give a shout. And, in the darkness, I think I heard claws climbing the wood fence. I ran to my back door and saw a possum slowly making his slothy way into my yard.
Such strange, creepy creatures. But I felt sorry for the guy. There he was just scrounging like a bum on High Street and getting confronted by some no-doubt pampered mutt trying to act tough. And I thought: Wow, here’s my chance to improve my standing on the reincarnation circle.
An hour later, I piled a bunch of fried chicken bones and other goodies into a bag and placed it near his suspected lair, my neighbor’s woodpile. Call it a cosmic offering. In some peculiar way, I thought if I was nice to the critter, my generosity would reduce my chances of being reincarnated as a loathsome possum, which I’ve since nicknamed Lightning, short for White Lightning, a song of the same name by country singer George Jones, whose nickname is Possum.
We’re not done with the animal weirdness, however.
In the middle of the very same night, I woke up around 3 am and went downstairs to get a snack. From behind the microwave streaked a large furry brown mouse, running the length of the countertop before he ducked behind the stove. He’d been chewing on a towel, of all things. Apparently, I don’t open all my drawers often enough because in each of the three that hold cloth kitchen towels, there were, ahem, a handful of mouse droppings. Gross, man, really gross. I don’t expect anybody reading this to come over for dinner anytime soon.
The next morning I followed through on my note (“make mouse murder Monday morn—Ace Hardware”) and bought two traps.
Now, if a possum had been running across my kitchen counter, I’d have let him off with a warning. Call me a bleeding-heart liberal, but when I’m looking at the most pathetic suburban creature known to man, I can’t help but feel empathy because I believe we all have an inner possum, as disgusting as that may sound. A mouse, well, not so much.
It has to go, reincarnation or no.
