The old cabin has plenty of gaps, and every winter mice find their way in. By spring, I can hear them at night once everything’s quiet. I catch them in live traps and carry them across a small creek to release them. I’m not sure it actually works, but I like to think they don’t come back.
When I release them, they don’t hesitate. They bolt off fast, almost bouncing—like tiny kangaroos.
One morning, though, one hadn’t made it. It was dead in the trap. The night before, the temperature had dropped to about 5°C. Mice have a very high metabolism and lose heat quickly, so even a short cold spell can hit them hard. It could also have been stress—being trapped in a small space with no way out is probably overwhelming for a prey animal. A surge of stress hormones like cortisol might be enough to push something that small over the edge.
I was about to bury it, but when I stepped outside, I noticed a black-eared kite circling overhead—a tombi. They’re a common sight in Japan, especially near rivers and open country, riding thermals with hardly a wingbeat. Opportunistic birds, too—they’ll take fish, scraps, even carrion if they get the chance.
That got me thinking the mouse might not go to waste. So instead, I put it on a block on top of the woodpile and set up a motion-activated camera to see what would happen.
Nothing at first. Then, at 4:15 one early morning, something showed up.
Not the kite, but a Japanese marten – a ten. They’re native to Japan—slender, quick, mostly nocturnal, and not easy to spot. They’ll eat just about anything: insects, fruit, small animals, and apparently the occasional dead mouse left on a woodpile. In Japanese folklore, martens and their relatives sometimes show up as strange, almost supernatural creatures—quick, elusive, and a little uncanny. There are stories of them shapeshifting or behaving like minor tricksters, slipping in and out of human spaces without being noticed.
This one didn’t linger. It came in during the night, grabbed the mouse, and was gone again.
That was that.