Comparative Suffering

There once was a mouse who was smaller than the others. He could jump, scurry, eat, and squeak, but always lower, slower, less, and softer. This inadequacy was the central conflict in his life, his original scar. He thought it impossible that anyone, mouse or otherwise, could live such a pitiful existence as he.

In a spiral of shame he wandered from the musty basement to one of the many posh offices above. Squeezing through centuries-old beams and around stately moulding, darting across firm navy carpets embroidered with official seals, he was considering returning home when he noticed a man sitting in the far corner. He seemed so full of sorrow yet empty inside, a fragile shell of a person who had given everything away with no dignity spared. The mouse felt embarrassed just looking at him.

Perhaps God sent this man to comfort the mouse. “Yes, things could always be worse,” he thought. The mouse sauntered over to the man, who didn’t so much as startle. “What’s you name?” The mouse uttered, and listened intently.

“Kevin McCarthy.”