If you live in the Raleigh Court you have doubtlessly noticed the pitter-patter of little feet on your hardwood floors this summer. No, there has not been an unusually loud boom of babies in the vicinity; I speak of the scampering legions of rodents that call my neighborhood home.
Hold your letters and email animal lovers; the simple truth is that I hate mice, rats and all like vermin. As a child I can remember overhearing a newscast reporting that smoking cigarettes caused cancer in rats. “Good, I thought,” I hate rats”, missing the message completely. I carry that dread to this day.
Several years ago, while working in our basement, I spied a happy little rat bouncing into our laundry room. Partially paralyzed with fear, I quietly climbed the stairs (trying not to alarm our then nine year old son) and whispered into my wife’s ear that a furry intruder was bathing in our sump pump. Leaping at the opportunity to test our Coonhound’s inherent hunting skills, Janet grabbed Tara by the collar and raced down to the cellar, while the “man” of the house hid upstairs.
The sounds emanating from below decks were horrifying. A mixture of Janet’s bloodthirsty support for her partner and Tara’s relentless unwillingness to share her home with yet another animal brought a quick end to the proceedings. In the end, Tara and Janet returned from the hunt victorious and our basement resembled an Indian massacre. I learned a lot about Janet that day, resulting in more than a few sleepless nights.
Janet is one of those people with no fear. A noted high school gymnast, she will fling herself into the fray with little care for life and limb, and come out battered but sound as a pound. Among the rodent population she is public enemy number one. Repulsed by the carnage and inhumanity left by glue traps, Janet often opts for the Lucrezia Borgia method of extermination, employing a poisonous and more humane solution.
Our present dogs also pitch in when they can. Mya, who is often frightened by a strong wind, becomes a pit bull when it comes to the challenge of the mouse hunt. Roscoe, the world’s laziest Basset Hound is little to no help. Unless the mice stroll up to Roscoe and introduce themselves, there is little chance a trophy will be claimed. If he sees a mouse dart behind our stove, Roscoe will stake out the rodent for hours, eventually falling asleep while the unwanted guest enjoys a hefty buffet in his half empty food bowl just three feet away. But on rare occasion Roscoe actually captures his prey. During these golden moments he usually trots up to Janet with a small tail wiggling out of his mouth, and gently places his mousy cargo on the floor, allowing for a quick, albeit slobbery, rodent escape.
For those who find my murine discourse heavy handed, try to picture these critters not as Mr. Jingles from “The Green Mile” or Stuart Little, riding around your living room in his tiny red convertible, but as the creepy little varmints who chew a hole in the bottom of the bag of YOUR Cheese Doodles, and snack their way to the top.
Neighbors, if you’re among the many who have dropped your hand into a bag of Doritos and battled a small, but savvy wild animal for supremacy of a chip, then you understand that of which I speak. I wish these creatures no harm and the best of success securing housing elsewhere, as the fact remains that between my son and his posse, there are enough livings things making off with my noshables as is. The problem is, that Will and posse won’t eat the poison (so far) and they don’t make glue traps large enough to snare eighteen year old humans.
If you are a mouse and reading this column, don’t take offense. Please find shelter in another town (I hear Salem is quite nice) and by all mean smoke ’em if you got ’em!
