Now That Damn Mouse is Eating my Vegetables

I am not a killer, a torturer of small rodents
trying to keep body and soul together
albeit in my house.
I don’t trap, poison, dry up their blood—no
I have a cat, who is supposed to scare them away. 

I don’t expect he’ll chew them up as Bobbie Burns so
explicitly does as he tells us about beasties. I know
he’s too well-fed and civilized to soil his whiskers.
But until this year, he’s always enjoyed games
with each visitor from the field across the way.

I’ve followed midnight thumps and found them
slipping and sliding in the bathtub;
I’ve seen the cat tearing back and forth
like a steed racing for the finish line, or
perhaps more aptly, a sleek greyhound pounding
down the stretch after the rusty rabbit.
One afternoon I was greeted with a dead thing
on the carpet as I opened the door—not a mark
on it—almost a smile on its fragile little face—
obviously from the thrill of the game.

 But this morning was too much.
I’ve turned over the drawers
against the far kitchen wall, taking
everything out and putting it on the counters,
cooking out of suitcases. I plugged in
a sonic discourager, but apparently he’s
tone deaf or is into chant. 

But this morning was too, too much—
a gnawed potato and on the other side
of the room from where I rented him space.
I’d given him the dish cloths, plastic bags,
oven mitts, and what food he could
ambitiously punch out of cellophane packages
or paper boxes. The cat and I know
he takes the hard morsels of Science Diet
and puts them into the niche under
the dishwasher (where I crunch it out
when opening the door). I hope he
appreciates that it’s good for his teeth
and also will keep him slim. 

Eddie, the cat, sleeps on, the thumps and crunches
coming from the kitchen passing him by
in his elderly dreams. Perhaps he welcomes
the company, maybe they play cards
when I’m at work. But, this potato thing is the end.
He’s got to go. No more sonar, no expectations
of Eddie evicting him–I’ve got to kill.
I’ll try the trap and hope it’s quick. I can’t bear to see
his accusing eyes. I feel like a failed parent.
There must have been some way to teach him my rules—
no potatoes, potatoes are just too much.