Attachment Cured by Rodentia, Tempus and Carnivora
by Soul Places | Diane Ludeking
My husband and I finally rented a place together again after jobs kept us in separate states for most of this year. We excitedly returned to our storage unit on Thursday to begin the moving process only to discover that mice had moved in. Since February, we had unwittingly loaned all our belongings to an unknown number of rodents. We hadn’t intended on our stuff being in storage so long so we haphazardly packed and threw everything in there. Every box was fair game as none of them were properly taped shut – only folded. We proceeded with apprehension as to what we might find.
Our hide-a-bed couch was stored on end so we could see as soon as we uncovered it that the mice had made a nest in it. A large plastic bin, overflowing with stuff and lidless, was littered with vermin excrement. A big box, also carelessly over-packed and wide open housed a precious pair of jeans that I have almost fit into since college. A rodent bathroom – that’s what they were now. Another pair of jeans I’ve almost fit into for a number of years had become a mouse chew toy. It suddenly became very easy to let go of my attachment to these belongings.
On to my most prized possessions – my books. These boxes have the unique experience of never being unpacked in my last dwelling. After a year and eight months of being locked away from my inquisitive eyes and fondling fingers, I was surprised to find that I could part with a significant number of them. “I’m not interested in that anymore” – “I don’t really need to keep every book I’ve ever read,” were some of the thoughts going through my head. Somehow they avoided being tread upon by the twenty-ounce rodent renters so there was no damage done and they brought a fine price at the used bookstore. It seems as though time had allowed a natural separation from those books.
Having lived for the last ten months without any of these things made it quite easy to slight them. I have made several trips to the local donation center and the only things I felt a little separation anxiety over were the re-homing of my childhood stuffed animals. My dog, Dallas, thought this would be an opportune time to acquire himself a new “baby.” He sensed my angst over these items and took advantage of a small window of opportunity. He very cutely marched over to my pile of toys, wagged his tail and batted his eyes at me. With his entire body engaged, muzzle reaching for the stuffed puppy, he asked me, “May I?”
I acquiesced and gave him the first two. Then he quite confidently took the other three – although he may have to fight my husband for the little Pooh Bear. Five of the ten stuffed animals I’d been hanging on to for fifteen years were re-homed right under my own roof. Of course they are now fodder for Dallas’ entertainment. Their guts will be scattered throughout the living space before too long, but I have let go of my attachment to them as well and will gladly throw them in the garbage when Dallas has completely disemboweled them. In the meantime, they will bring me much joy as I watch my smiling dog prance around the house with them.