My first ever interaction with a mouse was when I was 10 years old. My parents laid out a catch-and-release trap and, one morning, it managed to trap a mouse. Initially, I was fascinated by the little creature who was chewing on the piece of bread that had served as bait. Her anxious eyes, her tiny paws, and her elegant fur were endearing. I sat outside the cage — the trap — and spent the day watching her.
And then I learned what the “release” in “catch-and-release” entailed.
That night, my dad carried the trap to the ceiling and threw the mouse over the edge, plummeting her to her death. Before doing so, he had expressed his reluctance but told me he had to do it to keep everybody safe. I did not worry much about the incident because I was told not to. Several more mice were caught and killed in the next few weeks, and I forced myself not to care.
Pest. Dirty. Disease.
The words I was taught to associate with mice shaped my view of them. Humans demonize the animals we exploit because it helps us stay comfortable in our lack of empathy, and I was no different. Never did I…
