Gnaughty Gnawer—Part 2

Now, I realize that a segment of society would strongly disapprove of killing the mouse—especially some of my Buddhist friends. I do not take to killing easily and have pondered at length how to fend off animal (as well as human) invaders without resorting to exterminating them. I have managed to come up with a few ways of deterring some unwanted critters or otherwise limiting their damage, but there comes a time when death seems the only alternative. This has been especially true for nasty, stinging critters like yellow-jacket wasps and termites. They are not inclined to curb either their appetite or their aggression, and are capable of considerable damage.

So yes, I confess. I had resorted to killing a sweet little mouse. Furthermore, I did it with premeditation and even a bit of a celebration afterward. What could be my justification to my friends who might condemn me for such a barbaric act? Well, my first thought is to suggest that some accusers examine the log in their own eye. How many of them live in an urban environment, in which they pay other people to kill on their behalf? They may call the exterminator to dispatch pests, buy meat that someone else has slaughtered, send their unwanted dog or cat to the local animal shelter (to later be euthanized), or buy high-tech products from companies that exploit the poor in China. (OK, so maybe that list is a little overstated, and maybe I'm guilty of rationalization.)

Years ago—in my youthful ignorance—I was inclined to use mouse poison, until a little research showed me that the effect of the poison was dehydration, which slowly—and likely painfully—kills. So I've decided that if I am going to kill, I believe it's better to do it quickly. The old-fashioned spring-loaded mousetrap is fast and painless, as an example.

But a more persistent accuser might ask me, did I really need to kill at all? There are traps that snare a mouse alive, which allows you then to transport it elsewhere. I once accompanied a sweet, caring friend who had live-trapped a mouse. We drove in her car for a mile or so and freed the critter. That seemed to be a kind thing to do for the mouse, but what about the carbon footprint of that drive, and what about the possibility that the pest was simply being transferred to someone else's house? For that matter, was it really kind to move the mouse to a new location, where it was unfamiliar with predators there or available food supplies? Could a cat there have been delighted to have a tasty meal dropped off—sort of the beneficiary of a feline meals on wheels?

Or maybe I should have caught the mouse, befriended it, and spent many hours training it—either to keep outside my meditation hut (I'd probably have to bribe it with regular meals) or maybe teach it tricks, so we both could join the circus and become famous and wealthy? Or I could make some endearing mousy video, post it on YouTube, and watch it go viral. My mouse could then bathe in the limelight that all celebrities enjoy and subsequently retire to Cheeseville, Wisconsin. I've got better things to do, however. This cheeky mouse stepped over the line and is now departed. I'll try hard not to let his death haunt my conscience.

Gnaughty Gnawer—Part 1

I have written a few times before about our struggles with pests such as mice, termites, voles, deer, various biting insects, and an occasional raccoon and opossum. It's a constant struggle trying to deal with these critters, living out here in the woods. Over the years we've learned some coping techniques that allow us to coexist peacefully with most of them—for example, by finding deterrent schemes, limiting their damage, or simply finding ways to view them less as enemies and more as mildly-problematic cohabitants that we can live with.

Mice are one of the definitely more problematic cohabitants—as they have a way of chewing up things that I'd rather stay whole, as well as hoarding copious stashes of food (once in our clothes closet), that either later spoil or attract ants. We have primarily relied on our cat or resident snakes to control the population of mice, and they've done a fairly decent job of it. 

In recent years we have yet another reason to keep mice at bay: they can be a link in the chain of Lyme disease transmission to humans, so breaking that link can be helpful.
Living in an underground house, we have blessedly few invasions of mice, but I have a meditation hut to which I withdraw a couple of times a week to spend time in solitude. Mice periodically assault my refuge, and a recent raid was launched by the cheekiest mouse I've ever encountered. By cheeky, I mean this guy was the most impudent, audacious, and in-your-face rodent I've ever dealt with.

It began its harassment shortly after I'd retired one evening. I was awakened by the sound of some critter gnawing at the base of the wall. It being unusually quiet and peaceful in my hut, the sound of the chewing on wood denied me any chance of sleep. I got up and banged on the wall to scare it away. It stopped, but the gnawing sound returned several minutes later, after I once again fell asleep. I whapped the wall again, returned to bed, and the critter soon again commenced its chewing. This went on for the first half of the night—keeping me from my needed rest.

But chewing on the wall was just the beginning of his assault. In the second half of the night, I was awakened by something falling from the windowsill to the floor—rather, something being pushed to the floor by... guess who? I arose from my bed, figured out that the culprit was most likely the mouse, who had by then apparently chewed his way inside my hut. I made a lot of menacing hissing noises, hoping to scare it away. (How does a fearful predator of a mouse sound? Should I have meowed like a cat?)

Very soon—as I was again dropping off to sleep for the tenth time—another object got nudged to the floor from the windowsill. I seized a flashlight. Shining its light in the direction of the sound, I saw the mouse, who perkily climbed the wall, stared insolently at me, then disappeared into the woodpile. By now I was so infuriated that further sleep was impossible.
I declared war on my cheeky invader. I set a mousetrap over by the window the next morning. Returning to my hut later that day, I found the trap sprung and the bait gone. Not only was he impudent, but he seemed to have a cleverness capability rivaling mine! I spotted the mouse squatting under the wood stove, watching me, but once again it quickly ducked into the woodpile as I menacingly approached.

That afternoon I returned to my hut for my badly-needed nap. I reset the trap in a more clever location and laid me down to sleep. Within five minutes a loud SNAP! startled me, and I rolled over to see my quarry kick its wee legs a couple of times and promptly expire. Success! One dead naughty rodent. Only later did I discover that it had also insolently roamed my meditation shrine, chewing up a bird's nest and knocking over two small Buddha statues. Good riddance, you impertinent rodent!

More on the mouse next time...