Charles Bukowski — The Mice

my father caught the baby mice they were still alive and he flung them into the flaming incinerator one by one. the flames leaped out and I wanted to throw my father in there but my being 10 years old made that impossible. "o.k., they're dead," he told me, "I killed the bastards!" "you didn't have to do that," I said. "do you want them running all over the house? they leave droppings, they bring disease! what would you do with them?" "I'd make pets out of them." "pets! what the hell's wrong with you anyhow?" the flame in the incinerator was dying down. it was all too late. it was over. my father had won again.