We’re back in England for the summer, and only a few hours after we’d arrived, I found myself caught up in a situation involving a man, a bin, and a stuck mouse (which I know sounds like the start of a terrible joke, but bear with me).
Now, I really do love animals, but mice? They make me very, very nervous. It’s something about how fast they move, how they dart out from nowhere. Which is not at all ideal when you live on a farm, where they’re part of daily life whether you like it or not.
So, as I was nearing home after meeting my friend in a café for a quick coffee and chat, I saw a man standing by a big metal rubbish bin, rocking it from side to side. If this had been back home in our sleepy German village, it would’ve definitely drawn a concerned crowd. But in a busy UK town, no one batted an eyelid. I probably wouldn’t have either, until the man caught my eye and gave a sheepish smile. He pointed to the side of the bin, where a little mouse was stuck, its head and front legs free, but the rest of its body wedged tight in a small hole.
He was on the phone with the RSPCA, who didn’t sound especially hopeful. Maybe they’d send someone. Maybe not.
I told him I’d quickly pop home and look up local wildlife rescues, then come back to let him know what I’d found. I wasn’t sure what else to do. Walking into our flat, I told my wife what had just happened. She didn’t ask many questions, she just listened, nodded, and then calmly found a rubber oven glove, and headed straight back out the door. No fuss, no hesitation. A few minutes later, she was standing by the bin with the man, reaching in and pulling the squeaking mouse out of the hole with one firm tug, saying to it: “I know this hurts, but it’s either this or a horrid death stuck in a bin, buddy.”
That’s my wife. Raised on a farm. German and no-nonsense. Practical. She’s helped me rescue animals before. And she’s also had to put some to rest when there was no other option. She’s brave like that. The kind of brave that doesn’t turn away from pain. She just gets on with it. She says she couldn’t do what I do: sitting with people in their pain, listening to the hard stuff, holding space for what’s raw and uncertain. She says it would feel too heavy, too much. But the thing is, I often think she’s far braver than I am. She just sees what needs to be done and does it. No drama, no hesitation. I love that about her.
What I do feels possible because I’m working with people who can speak. People who can say, “This hurts,” or “I need help.” Animals can’t do that. And sometimes, people can’t either, when they’re too young, too scared, or too used to being ignored.
So many people walked past that man and the mouse in the bin. Some looked confused. Some shrieked and pointed. Some didn’t stop at all.
That man stopped though. So did I. And so did my wife.
Are you the kind of person who stops? Who notices? Who steps in, even if you feel nervous, even if it’s uncomfortable, even if you have to grab a rubber oven glove?
I think many of us are. I think sometimes we just forget.
It’s easy to feel helpless in a world that hurts. But sometimes, we really can help. In small, imperfect, brave little ways.
Even if we’re scared of mice.