Today was "Mouse Day". Plain old Mus musculus on the half-shell. Rodent kebab. House Mouse P-A-R-T-Y (Y? Because we like you.)
But the final score was: Western civilization, 2; Mice, 0.
Honest to shit, I have gone 25 years without seeing a dead mouse and today there were two. Weird, and then again, not so. One shuffled off his little mousey mortal coil in a seemingly irresistible trap (lead us not into temptation, we can find it ourselves, thank you very much) and one apparently just dropped dead from the sheer fucking boredom of being a rodent in Kansas City. Wow, I can relate. Imagine how much better the average L.A. mouse lives, what a joy it must be to have a year-round gray fur coat and parade yourself up and down the Santa Monica pier, foraging for bits of fish taco and Cheezits. Today's weather, sunny, seventy-two, tomorrow, sunny, seventy-two. Fifty percent chance of sharp cheddar falling from the California sky. Squeaking fucking ecstasy.
But being a mouse in Kansas City is less promising. Your best bet for happiness is finding a mouse-shaped niche in a friendly restaurant (you know it's true) or a nice bungalow in Brookside. Best of times, it's unbearably boring, the weather is unpredictable and it's usually way too hot or way too cold. Even the Plaza mice have to do deal with zooming, weaving SUVs and Porsches and the excrementally trendy wanna-be sidewalk cruisers and fur-bearing matrons in waiting, bent on stomping the mousey life out of you. The metaphor for larger, non-rodential life-forms is too obvious.
No wonder he ended it all.
It's hard for a large pseudo-French lagomorph to work up any substantial rodent empathy, but it seems a shame to let such a tiny life in Kansas City go entirely to waste. I walked up to the tiny corpse and took his picture with my phone, thinking it might somehow serve as a warning to others that might unknowingly be headed for lifetimes of self-destructive behavior here in The Land That Time Forgot.
Then it occurred to me that I had the power to keep this little guy's life from being lived in vain. I could give him purpose, even in death. I leaned over, and looking at his furry gray, room-temperature visage, I knew what I had to do.
I right-clicked him.
Thus spake the rabbit.