My dad was a hunter. I can remember opening the garage door and seeing ghostly goose carcasses slung from ceiling rafters. Eating wild duck for Christmas and hearing stories of how dad gave up shooting rabbits because if you didn’t kill them right away they cried like babies.
He came by it naturally. The fireplace at my Grandparents log home sported a massive rack of antlers donated by some unwitting and unwary denizen of the forest. In the guest bedroom, old rifles were racked on wall mounts made of deer hooves. I never understood the allure of it all – the thrill of the hunt.
“Yeah! Got one!” I gleefully scooped up the trap and it’s occupant, now stiffened in rigor mousis, and released it into the bushes outside where it would be dinner to some other varmint. The fridge scoreboard read Mouse – 0, Jill 4! Who knew I was so bloodthirsty?
“Why can’t you use the live catch traps?” my husband complained, “They’re much more humane!”
It makes me think of an obscure little verse in the Song of Songs “Catch for me the little foxes… that ruin the vineyards.” The little foxes – I’ve certainly got some internal pests, squeaking and unclean. Offenses, judgments, a sense of entitlement. They may seem small and inconspicuous, hidden underneath the surface. At best they make messes. At worst, they are destructive. So they’ve got to go. No live traps and release. These suckers gotta die!
D.L. Moody was once asked who was his greatest opponent in ministry. His response? D. L. Moody! I’m always asking myself the question, am I holy, or just socialized? What’s scurrying below the surface?
We’ve all got critters, internal vermin, the little foxes, and I don’t know about you, but I’m going after mine!
Just call me the Mousinator!