Seth was getting gas when I noticed something strange on the oily concrete next to the pump. It turned out to be the cutest animal I have ever seen - an abandoned baby mouse so young it's eyes were still shut. It's head was roughly the size of it's body, placing it in the developmental phase known as "Cartoon-Like Cute." The biological function of this is to make others want to care for it. As Gallagher once quipped: "God makes babies cute so you don't kill 'em." Then he probably smashed something with his giant hammer, perhaps a baby doll, or something juicier.
Nature's strategy worked on us. Me, Seth, a mechanic, and the cashier from inside were all gathered around the tiny, shivering creature in no time flat. The mechanic summed up what we were all thinking when he said: "I know people kill mice, but it's just a baby."
The cashier ran inside and returned with an empty Dentyne Fire "Spicy Cinnamon" box, and the mechanic gently pushed the mouse into it. I covered it up with shredded Panera napkins I had in my pocket.
We took it to an animal hospital about three quarters of a mile down the road, where the attendant said it didn't look too dehydrated. She seemed sorry not to have any mouse milk on hand, and recommended that we feed it some other kind. The she saw the look on our faces and said: "Oh, I see. You just wanted to drop it off."
I then pulled out the trump card. The excuse that has delayed the return of countless voice mails and e-mails. The bane of concerned family members and friends. The wedge between us and our girlfriends.
"We'd love to help, really. But you see, we're on the road."
Happy anniversary, Jack Kerouac. Good luck, little mouse.
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