Mice are People Too

Socks and I weave untold dangers to release our unwanted roommate

I give the mice a choice. They get the humane option, or they get the guillotine. Both options are available. And I’ve felt fine about this. After all, this is my home. I have children. I have lives to keep healthy.

This time, the humane trap caught one. A sturdy little guy. Good choice, buddy. I loaded him into the car with Socks riding in the trunk, blissfully unaware of our passenger.

Google said two kilometers was enough, but that felt too close. I stretched it to four, zigzagging through roundabouts, over bridges, winding further out into the countryside. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wanted to erase the map, make sure he couldn’t find his way back.

But the longer I drove, the guiltier I felt. I imagined him trying—veering under car wheels, scrambling across bridges, squeezing through drainage grates. The towering human architecture from his perspective—curbs as cliffs, overpasses as mountains. And then the worst thought: his family, waiting, whiskers twitching, never knowing what happened to him.

That’s when I started thinking about magnetism. How birds and fish and who knows what else can sense the Earth’s magnetic fields. I mean, how do mice have the ability to traverse two kilometers to get back? What if he felt the pull, the tug of home, and spent the rest of his life trying to follow it?

And of course, that’s when I drifted into one of those French right-of-ways. One driver has to yield. I was too far gone in my magnetic musings to notice. Suddenly, there’s a woman glaring at me through her windshield, visibly swearing. I waved, mouthed “sorry,” thought she might let me through. Instead, she shot right up to my bumper. I slammed into reverse, hand raised as if to say, “I’ll do it, just give me a second.” All the while muttering: Doesn’t she realize I’m out here saving lives, people?

The first field I considered had a murmuration of birds circling above—too dangerous. I promised him better. I thought I heard him squeaking as I looked up at the spiraling birds. Finally, I found the right spot. I opened the trap. He bolted into the grass, and I said what the video shows: If I catch the rest of your family, I’ll bring them here.

Driving away, I noticed a circus being set up in the distance. Bright banana-yellow trucks lined the field, so perfect they looked staged.

I kept hearing squeaks on my way home—so either that mouse was a ventriloquist, or he left his ghost voice behind, or else my old car just needs oil. Socks was still curled up in the trunk, blissfully unaware.

And then I started thinking about the squeaks I might leave behind. Do people sometimes imagine hearing my voice? Maybe magnetism doesn’t just guide birds, fish, and mice. Maybe it pulls at us too—our sense of direction, our sense of belonging, the unseen force tugging us always toward home.

Maybe it was just a mouse relocation. But for me, it felt like an epic adventure. And man, did I get deep.

I’ve started a new fund for Sock’s Back to School project. It’s a wild dream to perhaps help Socks overcome his emotional issues and open up to the world. More info on the link:

Buy Socks a Bone