Compassion can surprise even you.
From the time I somersaulted from my mother’s womb, I learned, never to squeal on anyone, including a mouse that preceded me into Duane Reade like a runaway caboose.
I watched him dive under the umbrella display, then peek up at me as if to say, come on, please don’t tell. It’s just so freakin cold out there, even for me.
And it was, and he wasn’t wearing a hoodie like yours truly who was freezing waiting for the store to open.
I can’t say I’m a rodent fan, but my heart, though quickened by his presence, opened anyway. He was certainly tiny, but chubby, so at least I knew he was eating. Yes, his diet did occur to me, my Italian having no edit for any member of the disenfranchised.
It did make me wonder if he had family in residence thinking maybe I’d forego buying Raisin Bran that was this week’s special.
No offense Mighty, but I think I may just trip on down to Gristides hoping I don’t bump into any of your relatives.
It’s hard not being a rat, and harder, I imagine, being one.