And now it’s raining on you; I think we can both agree on that. Against my window, I hear it, and you must be soaked under some bush or in the shed, which I casually left open the way women in old movies drop their handkerchiefs. Never mind how I found you in the basement, meowing on a love seat, the palatial home to several generations of mice. Never mind the outside entrance where you followed the chipmunks darting in and out, or how I lured you up the leaf-covered steps into the white light of the world with torn bits of a hot dog, flesh of some other flesh, which I imagined you had as much right to as I did. Better to give you this dead than to have you make more, the family of mice not knowing the beast on their roof, the chipmunks escaping claw and fang. Never mind my grandfather, who could not afford any more animals and so clubbed the spring kittens on a workbench and dumped their limp bodies in the trash. On the framed metal shelves, the traps capture only dust. There, there, I want to say to you, mother to child, well friend to ill. There, there. The gold-gray storm swells cold in the windows. The stone walls heave more each year. The house folds in on itself. How angry I am at the world, angry enough to kill someone, especially the person who loved you so briefly, then turned you loose into the world for me to turn away. And yet I can’t even kill these rodents, and want to protect them from you, and also want you not to starve but will no longer feed you or let you stay. This, then, is being human. This, then, is not being God.