Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

The Rochester Zen Center…

Has a mouse problem.

We’re losing this war badly.

These mice are completely unafraid.

The softies here at the center are out of their element.

They hate killing.

As Buddhists, we believe in living in harmony with all sentient beings.

And the mice love us for it.

Sometimes, I see them scurrying around in broad daylight.

I’m remembering that old movie, Joe’s Apartment.

Except the roaches are swapped out for rodents.

Every night, I go to sleep…

That’s when the stage lights come on…

They start singing a number…

And they line-dance over the counters.

The next day, they leave a trail of poop behind.

One staff member calls them “Fred.”

“Should we leave a snack out for Fred tonight?” he jokes.

Another imagines one mouse bragging to his friends about the team of professionals who cook him a five-star meal every day.

Everyone here is a conscientious objector.

Nobody will even eat meat.

We’re far too kind-hearted to do what’s required.

So the lethal options are off the table.

No poison.

No cats.

And the traps don’t work.

Dozens of them. All empty.

It’s like they know exactly what it is, and they know to avoid it.

Not even peanut butter tempts them.

One night, I walked into the staff kitchen…

And saw a mouse, ass up under the toaster…

Eating crumbs like it owned the place.

Like Nero at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I had seconds.

I grabbed a towel.A box.

It spotted me and ran behind the bread basket.

I waited.

It came out the other side.

I dropped the towel, pinned it, grabbed it…

And slammed it into the box.

Caught.

For once.

I kept it there overnight.

Nobody wanted to kill it.

Of course not.

If we let it outside, it would come right back.

One guy offered to take it home for his cat.

Fine.

He gets home…

Opens the box…

Reaches for the cat…

And in that tiny window—

The mouse escapes.

Starts a new life there.

That’s how it works.

Nobody does what’s necessary.

So the problem survives.

Then it multiplies.

And eventually…

It owns the place.

We locked everything down.

Tupperware. Sealed containers. No food in rooms.

For a moment, it looked like we’d won.

They got skinny.

Then they found other food.

At night, they slide under my door.

I hear them scurrying.

I wake up feeling violated.

Like a burglar was just in my house.

So I bought thick foam to block the gap.

Now I hear them chewing at it.

In the morning, there are bits of foam outside my door.

For now, they haven’t gotten in.

Nothing leaves me feeling more broke…

Than having mice for roommates.

TonyEditor-in-ChiefPermission to be Powerful

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