It is five to midnight on 1 November 2019. I have just returned from depositing a mouse at the bottom of Exted Hill, two-thirds of a mile from my house. Rainy and blowy, late autumn/early winter continues to do its thing outside my office window. The mouse was captured in a small mammal trap I had baited with a small dollop of chocolate spread. I could have given the mouse to the two cats as a midnight snack. They seem to catch and eat at least one small rodent a day. On the other hand, they had done nothing to earn this one; my motivations to do so would have been laziness and a reluctance to venture out into the night, which are not to be respected; and, foremost, my desire is always to preserve life, not arrange its premature ending. The mouse ignored me as it left the trap for the safety of long grass, failing to express any gratitude for the courtesy and compassion I had shown it, and the effort to which I had gone on its behalf. I was unsure whether I could hear it scampering behind me as I walked back home. Maybe I should expect to be meeting the mouse again.
I am recovering, sort of, slowly, from a cough and sore throat that has blighted my week.The cough, as always, interacts viciously with my hiatus hernia, giving me permanent and painful gastric reflux. I have been swigging from a bottle of Gaviscon. Walking between four and eight miles each morning in precipitation that varies from light drizzle to steady rain, although no doubt invaluable for my arterial circulation, can't be good for my bronchial health.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment