Was It Self-Defense?
When it was over, 30 lay dead or dying.
Silence, though welcome, lay heavy in the
morning air. Mercifully, the wind had blown
through in the night, pushing the smell of
death to the periphery. But the visuals were
there to tell the story.
Charlie and I stood in wonderment that it
was finally over. It had been more than a
week of long grueling battles, nights barely
sleeping, as we lay vigilantly listening for the
intruders. We had hidden as best we could,
but still they would find us, and the skirmish
would begin again. We were frightened and
confused by their boldness as they tried to
claim our living space, our home, seemingly
undaunted that we were there close by.
They may have come from the south, across
the desert. It is still an unknown part of the
mystery of how they found us, why they
selected us to assault. For years we had
lived in this corner of Paradise, only slightly
bothered by them. Why had they picked this
time, this year, to attempt to rip our world
apart?
Of course, Charlie and I are worried, even
24
Cenizo
Winter 2020
now, whether we will be held accountable.
We will claim it was self-defense. Surely it
was. Surely it will be seen that we were only
defending the life we had built, our home,
our property. Surely it will be seen that
when the smoke lifted, when peace was
restored, we had been, indeed, fighting for
and defending our very lives.
Remorse? Regret? Would we do it
differently if it were all to be done again?
Would we wish for a different outcome? Yes,
of course. If only they had retreated earlier.
If only they had not sent for reinforcements.
The damage would have been less, the body
count fewer. That was their choice, not ours.
And yet. . . . and yet, we chose to fight
them, we chose to defend ourselves. We
could have left, we could have run. But we
did not. We stayed and we are left with the
consequences: a long list of casualties.
Of what do I write? A warzone in Mexico
against the cartels, where no one’s home is
sacred? The old wild west, where guns and
rifles lie smoking on the ground?
No. Rather, this was the scene last month,
when Charlie and I returned to our home on
Terlingua Ranch after six months away.
Mice had taken ownership of our home. It
was war.
Other years we returned from extended
times away to find evidence of mice-- some
droppings, perhaps even a nest. But this was
unlike anything we had ever encountered in
our own home. (And in years past, we’d had
our Alvin cat. But he had died at 15, right
before we had headed back to Texas.) What
was especially strange is that when we
walked into the house, I said, “Someone’s
been cleaning!” All the surfaces I could see at
first glance looked newly wiped off. Had one
of our neighbors prepared the house for us,
knowing that this was about when we would
get home every year?
And then I opened a drawer, lifted a pillow,
looked behind books. . . Mouse droppings,
mouse pee, mouse nests, chewed papers.
There was not a room that was unaffected.
Our neighbors, indeed, confirmed that they
had been at our house, seen the mess, and
cleaned enough so that we didn’t have to