Some years ago, while living at my parents house, our cat discovered a mouse. Archimedes, the cat, had a stakeout going outside the laundry closet. For three days he sat on alert right by the doors and would not move except for food and the litter box.
At the end of the stake out, I was watching TV—Archimedes was behind me. Suddenly I heard a quiet high pitched, “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” I shot up from my chair to see a small grey mouse squealing his head off while running for his life from the pursuing grey cat.
By the time I caught up with them in the living room the mouse was lying dead near the fireplace—the cat staring down unsure what to do next. I got a dustpan from the kitchen and went to scoop up the dead mouse when I noticed something. The mouse had no sign of injury. Not only that, his chest was rapidly moving in and out. He was alive and was faking death in order to avoid it.
I scooped him up in the dustpan and almost immediately he sprung to life and began running around. The cat was following me anxious to know where I was taking his prize. The mouse, unaware I was trying to save his life, looked terrified of me and the fact that I had him captive. He ran to the edge of the pan and looked like he was going to jump.
“As you hope to live,” I said to the mouse, “do not jump.” What is scaring in the moment is what is keeping you from a worse fate.
He didn’t jump. I was able to take him outside fling him deep into the woods. An uncomfortable landing, no doubt, but a landing survived.
