An Almost Biblical Glimpse of A Baser Nature

It is a parable of greed.  But I get ahead of myself.

The seeds have been nestled in their sprouting trays for more than a week now, presumably stirring their little germinations beneath the potting soil.  A few varieties-- kale, cauliflower, broccoli and one obscure variety of tomato -- have actually shown themselves greenly above the surface while we wait for others to catch up.  It's early yet.  Since I first began to reorganize the greenhouse a couple of weeks ago, readying it for the new season, I was aware of rodent activity.  The box of extra compostable seed trays left over from last year had been seriously nibbled through, and on more than one of my visits an especially precocious mouse supervised my work.

Let me just interject here that I am not a big fan of mice.  Despite their acknowledged cuteness, they creep me out; flinching is my instinctual reaction.  I have no objective data suggesting that mice will wreak mischief on my nascent vegetables, but I have no interest in my carefully selected and lovingly sown seeds being excavated and consumed as mouse food.  I know, I know; as Lori periodically reminds me, "this is nature," and mice will have unrestricted access to the seeds I direct plant out in the garden.  But it somehow feels different among the trays and the shelves, and I don't much care to greet them each morning and evening in the greenhouse.

So, I have been setting traps.  High-tech and low-tech varieties, seductively slathered with peanut butter and strategically placed around the edges of the shelves.  When we noticed a neighborhood cat sauntering across the back yard proudly dangling one of the little buggers from her mouth as a culinary trophy I wondered if my trapping efforts were unnecessary -- until I began to notice missing peanut butter from otherwise undisturbed traps.

I redoubled my efforts.

More peanut butter.  Rearranged placements.

And then one of the new trap varieties signaled that its work was done.  I disposed of it, and reloaded the more basic trap that had once again been robbed of its bait.  The next day the bait was gone again, but still the spring was unsprung.  I watered the seed trays, but delightful house guests gave me better things to do than worry about clever and dexterous mice still on the lamb.

Until this morning.  Returning to the greenhouse for the morning's review and sprinkling, I noticed that the trap was disarranged.  Closer examination revealed the southerly half of a quite-dead mouse dangling from the clenched jaw of the trap.  (NOTE:  Photographs have been withheld out of gastric deference.)

Thence, then, is the parable on greed.  The mouse, the day before, had already thieved the whole of the bait.  Nevertheless it had come back for the more that only existed in the aroma of memory.  And there, cocky and emboldened by the success of earlier plunder -- or distracted, perhaps, by the determination born of empty-handed disappointment -- the last sound it heard was the spring snapping shut.

Or greedily pawing in disbelieving futility, didn't hear at all.

"Two down," I thought to myself as I gingerly disposed of the remains -- three if you credit the cat;
"I wonder how many more?"

More, I'm sure; but I think I'll pause a bit before re-baiting the trap.

And ponder.