The Rural Ethicist: No Vacancy at the Wildlife Hostel

By Katharine Adams

November 2025

Once the Berkshires’ sunny days of fall recede, we turn inward once again toward the cozy life. Some wax their skis, while others anticipate only four more months until spring. All creatures shore up their dens and stockpile good stuff to eat.

The field mouse is no exception. They think themselves small enough to go unnoticed by those they want to bunk with for winter. They attempt to slip indoors through fissures in our slowly settling houses.

In our mudroom, there is a little ceiling trap door leading up to an attic space. The environment within beckons as a fine rodent resort, parked beside the chimney.

Flattering as their whiskered loyalty might be, we resolutely do not wish to share our living quarters with their ilk. It’s just not a good fit. How would they like it if we tried to elbow our way into their abode?

Recently, a scuffle among the house cats caught our attention. I knew they had intercepted some young critter trying to steal indoors. To be fair, it was a bit advanced in the season to leave the door open to the screen porch, but my ardor for our second living room of summer dies hard.

If you know anything about cat-and-mouse games, a feline does its job in catching a little scamp by playing with the poor thing until it expires by "capture myopathy” (essentially, by shock).

I announced I’d go investigate the ruckus. Privately, I hoped to intervene and relocate the little gnawer before he met a fearsome fate. There, hiding by a chair leg, was the wee suspect—but a trembling, wayward youth. And young things should have a chance to go carousing with their mates, making memories and future stories before the responsibilities of adulthood set in.

The poor fella was panting, frazzled and exhausted. So I pulled on gloves, sacrificed an old dish towel, scooped him up and walked him outside—way out—over to the edge of our long driveway. I bent down close to the ground, fluffed his confused little framework out and watched him wander off. He bumbled a bit, but he was surely grateful for a second chance. Hopefully, he found a nice leaf-tent to convalesce.

Satisfied, I returned to the house. I submitted a brief report [ahem, of omission] to the resident Chief of Vermin Police, who morphs into a ladder-wielding, mudroom-attic-peering hawk, on the daily. I was careful to limit detail, lest I risk revealing my inner nonsensical tendencies. Because after twenty years together, I like to kid myself that I can keep a lid on it.

“Was he dead?” the Chief flatly inquired. A direct, straightforward question that only one built on folly believes they’ll escape.

“No,” I replied, too brightly, as I shifted in my seat.

“You mean … you let him go?”

“Well … yeah,” admitted my soft white underbelly.

“Pests,” came the declaration. “You do realize we’re talking pests?”

“Well, I can’t kill spiders, either,” was the feeble defense, referencing the rescue of other nuisance invaders. Of value.

“We’re talking pests!” underscored the overlord, with affection-tinged disbelief.

“But,” reassured the defense, in piety, “I can’t kill spiders, either.” (Not anymore, anyway.)

The Chief sprouted a one-sided smile. “We’re not talking about spiders.”

“Okay, okay,” the nun of nudniks finally relented, “I saw something on some nature show that ruined me. It was about ‘top animal dads,’ and the field mouse made their list. They set a camera inside a nest and filmed a father attending to his lady mouse, in the throes of labor. He was amazing.”

The decree was accurate and swift: “What a sap.”

Later on, a run-in with their mousely “refuse” on my mudroom closet shelf may find me looking the other way, when next the cats may play.

I once kept a hamster named Pickles who shocked me by tossing her wandering babies across the cage, back to their crib corner. She left an imprint, too, for I knew at eight years old that I didn’t like her parenting style.

Who knew a tiny being could be such a father figure? Admirable devotion. Just don’t pick the wrong time and place, pal. Stick to field work.