The mice are sleeping soundly now that I have unearthed the voles from our flower garden and sent them packing. The last vole I released scuttled off in the exact opposite direction I expected, but voles will confound you at every turn.
I
have also captured and carted away for distant release five
flower-and-berry-eating chipmunks. The last of those ate a blueberry I offered
before I set it free in a juniper and bull pine thicket. "You’re luckier
than you expect," I called after the chipmunk. "Read Sylvia Plath’s
The Blue Moles sometime, and you’ll see what I mean…"
It’s
not that I like the mice, but they have me by sheer numbers. I lack the energy
to capture and move all of them. The voles I captured by day, the chipmunks in
the early morning and late evenings.
The
mice swarm through the night, and I set no trap.
I’ve
lost all interest in killing things. I killed with glee when I was younger but
found it less and less satisfying as I went on. Today, I capture and release
every manner of creepy-crawly thing, and I often wonder how I ended up landing
here on a planet where most living things, to survive, must kill and eat
something smaller or less hapless.
—Mitchell
Hegman
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