It isn’t COVID-19 at my house it’s mice

It isn’t COVID-19 at my house, it’s mice.

This morning I uncovered my garden plants and saw that my beautiful eggplant’s three blossoms had been eaten off plus three large leaves lying in the dirt.

Damn mice.

A five gallon bucket tipped upside down over my plant, this baby I have been nurturing for two months, did not keep the bastard out.  Refitting it over the ring in the dirt I notice a low spot.  Had I not pushed the bucket hard enough into this dry desert soil or had the mouse dug under the rim?  I thought I had been careful.  Perhaps it was the only bucket I failed to push on? I remember pushing on the others. This mouse, an opportunist.

Those little purple flowers on that beautifully shaped plant...I was so excited, so, proud, was looking forward to the fruit. Eggplant parmigiana, vegetables in charred eggplant and coconut sauce, Baigan Bharta,..

This is the third time this plant has been raped yet it keeps coming back.

Maybe she is like me, nothing can keep her down for long? 

My fingers are crossed.

Still, I don’t feel as though I have been a good caretaker.

I bought 100’ of hardware cloth a full month ago but never put it up.  I stuck with the bucket solution, being so busy with other projects though not life saving ones like hardware cloth barriers. So, of course, the onus is on me.  It isn’t the mouse’s fault as angry as I am at her.  I think she loved the purple blossoms even more than I did, so much so she couldn’t wait for the fruit and devoured the violet wombs.

Why did I not take the time to push on the bucket, to raise the hardware cloth?

Maybe I will still get an eggplant at the end of the season.

If I do I am not sure I deserve it.

Then there’s the story of the city mice, the ones who prefer to live inside, under my refrigerator the indoor version of the country mice who eat straight from the garden.

That night of bloodshed I heard one trap snap closed.  I turned over in my bed and went back to sleep.  I would tend to that in the morning, not willing to search out the results of a half finished murder before my dreams had come.

In the morning two traps had been sprung, a mother and her child.

And I spied the sister peeking out from behind the refrigerator watching me lift the bodies of her family, sent to their graves by metal and wood and human bloodlust.

There was nothing to be done but carry out the bodies of the half murdered family to sate the ravens.

Then I set a bowl of water and bread crumbs for my new baby; my responsibility, now.

She is crying behind the refrigerator.

Yes she is, newly orphaned, tiny little squeaking sounds mourning for her mother. 

All Day Long.

(I know the sound.  I mourn for my mother, too, in the wee hours, sometimes, before the sun breaks the horizon.)

Yesterday, the day before the murder of the eggplant flowers, Buddy, 100lb Buddy, took his leave on his dog bed and baby mouse ran out from under it and steeled behind the three logs I keep near my wood stove.  She is crying again.  Even Buddy doesn’t have the heart to eat her. With coffee in hand I seek her out.  There she is, tucked in the corner, hiding behind the wood.

She looks up at me, crying, looks directly in my eyes and then tucks her head down and makes herself smaller.  Maybe I will leave her alone, she hopes.  And I do, long enough to retrieve an empty cottage cheese container. 

I suspect she is hungry or dehydrated (neither water nor crumbs have been touched) because she doesn’t run fast as I work to capture her in the container.  She does push her body closer to the logs but she does not run.  I scoop her up and bring her outside and she goes into the tall grass.

When I take up my seat with my coffee again she is on the patio, perhaps looking for a way back inside.  REALLY! She is a city mouse, after all, an indoor girl.  With the cottage cheese container I scoop her up again and bring her out close to the compost heap, something that might help her ease into getting along in the outside world.

The compost pile is about fifty feet from my garden.

Oh, did I do that?  

Did I feed my eggplant to that baby girl?

It’s the least I could do, I suppose.

I am so conflicted.