The bar had snapped down over its hind leg,
where I presume something like a hip would be,
but it was still alive. Its squeaking sounded
like markers on a dry-erase board. Funny
how the mystique of the pest – the echoing
of its scratching in the walls, the blurring
of its shape scurrying across the kitchen floor –
was so distant from the fragile form at the base
of my sink cabinet, panting and staring with
one unblinking eye. It must have been no more
than six inches from the tip of its nose to the tip
of its tail – two-thirds the span of my hand.
My only weapon was the snap trap, which failed.
I could leave it there, sure, and it would starve,
but it had already been dragging the trap across
the floor, and there was just no sleeping with that.
Kneeling with my legs tucked under me, my hands
on my thighs, as if readying myself for prayer,
I watched the beast the way one stares at difficult
equations, begging for solutions to reveal themselves.
Then I pulled a hammer from a small repair kit
and thwapped the little shit with the flat end,
once, twice, until I knew its tiny organs were crushed,
dropped it in the trash, and finally got some rest.
