Big Fat Spider

This spider sure seems well fed. Click to enlarge.

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...

Tree Frog

This little guy came down from the trees to allow me to get a photo of him. Note his great camouflage, in the form of what looks like moss or lichen on its back, which coats many trees around here. It is about one inch (2-3 cm) long. Click to enlarge.

Sacred Sacrifices—Part 2

Let me turn to another type of sacrifice that my dictionary defines: ”An act of giving up something valued for the sake of acquiring something else regarded as more important.” This is another kind of sacrifice that seems to have gone out of favor these days. When I was young, people often purchased things from the store on so-called “lay-away plans.” You picked out something you desired, put some money down, and the store stashed the object in the back room. You made payments as you were able, until the purchase price was met and it was yours. Such a concept of delayed gratification is literally unknown today, as credit card companies encourage you to have whatever you want now—as long as you pay them usury charges of 22% or more on the balance.

In an classic experiment in 1970, Walter Mischel, a researcher at Columbia University, conducted a study in which young children were placed at a table upon which one marshmallow sat. The experimenter told the child that she had to leave the room for a few minutes. If, while she was gone, the kid could refrain from eating the one marshmallow in hand, a second marshmallow would be rewarded upon her return. The kids were filmed through a one-way mirror, and the torment they went through is hilarious to watch.

Mischel then followed the kids over the next decade or two. What he showed was that those kids who demonstrated self-control and won the second marshmallow were later more successful in life. Delayed gratification brought them greater achievement. As in the above dictionary definition, they were able to give up something of value (a single treat) to acquire something of greater value (two treats).

Michael Foley, in his book The Age of Absurdity: Why Modern Life Makes it Hard to be Happy, addresses this issue in a bit different manner. He describes Mischel's marshmallow experiment and uses it to make the point that if we can resist the desire for immediate gratification for anything (even yummy marshmallows), we have a better chance of achieving long-term fulfillment in our lives. He points out that fulfillment is hard work and that many people in modern society do not really want to do the hard work, because our culture teaches us that our desires can easily be satisfied with little effort.

So we no longer sacrifice—either in the sense of slaughtering an animal to the gods or by exercising self-control and delaying gratification. In either case, sacrifice is giving up something desirable today (like that delectable marshmallow beckoning me) for a bigger reward tomorrow. It calls for planning and letting go an immediate satisfaction for a happier future. It calls for hard work. Not many people are willing to wait.

Sacred Sacrifices—Part 1

I found myself thinking recently about the ancient practice of sacrifice—whereby our deep ancestors made offerings to the gods, in the hope that the sacrifice would please them and they'd in turn grant the entreaties made in their name. There are countless examples of our forebears making oblations to their gods.

Why sacrifice? Those ancients did not understand how most natural events came about. Beneficial happenings—such as good rains, victory in battle, and good health—were believed to be delivered by the gods. Likewise, harmful happenings—disease, earthquakes, and floods—were also dispatched by the gods. The ancients believed that the gods could be helpful or harmful; it depended on their mood. In order to curry favor or placate them, the ancients often engaged in elaborate sacrificial ceremonies.

But what does it really mean to sacrifice? It has a wide variety of connotation—depending on the topic and the situation. My dictionary defines sacrifice as no less than six kinds of events: (1) an act of offering to a supernatural figure, in the way of slaughtering an animal (or person!) or surrendering some possession; (2) an act of giving up something of value for the sake of acquiring something else regarded as more important; (3) Jesus offering himself for the redemption of mankind; (4) a chess move, whereby one offers an opponent a piece, for strategic or tactical reasons; (5) in baseball, a bunt that puts the batter out, but advances one's team's base runner; (6) in bridge, a bid that is made with the belief that it would be less costly to be defeated, than to allow your opponents to make their contract. Those various definitions surely cover a lot of sacrificial ground!

Returning to our deep ancestors' sacrifices to the gods in exchange for favorable circumstances: their acts were essentially based on an ignorance of the natural world. An ancient Greek philosopher (Epicurus, 5^th century BCE) and a later Roman poet/writer (Lucretius, 50 BCE) both put forth the argument that earthquakes, floods, and bountiful growing seasons were not due to the capriciousness of the gods. They were natural happenings. In fact, these sages reasoned that the gods had better things to do than either bedevil or bless humans. Hence, they counseled that sacrifices were for naught. It was a fool's errand to appeal to the gods. Don't waste your prize goat.

However, their message fell on deaf ears, as humans continued to make sacrifices. Why? It is quite natural for us to conceive of storms, drought, and diseases as events far larger than ourselves—events that must be caused by a super being. Thus people carried on with the practice of offering something of value to the powers that be. Many acts of sacrifice demand our giving up something we really value—otherwise, it's a hollow deed. So our forebears came to choose the most perfect of their animals to slaughter. In the case of Abraham, he was even ready to kill his own son, to please God!

I wonder how the sacrificial ceremony and its aftermath might have played out differently, for those living in polytheistic versus monotheistic cultures. For example, in ancient Greece or Rome, people often selected one of many gods to be their personal deity. They had an altar in their home, with icons and other paraphernalia relating to their god of choice. The family developed ceremonies and appropriate sacrifices to their private god.

I wonder what did they do when their offering seemed to be spurned? “Hey, I killed my prize goat and we still had a crappy harvest!” Did they conclude that their sacrifice was not up to snuff and thus select two perfect goats next time, or did they get pissed off at their god and decide to worship another one? They had a sizable pantheon to select from.

Then along came monotheism, introduced by the Hebrews. Now there was only one God to sacrifice to. I wonder what did the monotheists did, when their sacrifices failed to deliver the goods? They were not afforded the opportunity to switch deities. They either had to embellish the next sacrifice, or conclude that God works in mysterious ways and muddle on. Luckily, humans later came to understand that many good and bad events indeed are natural happenings that do not call for sacrifices for which one will be granted favors or to be spared from tragedy. The hope of influencing events lives on, however, in the form of prayers offered for favors.

More on sacrificing next time...

Darkling Beetle

This beetle hides in the day and emerges at night. The larvae are called mealworms. They cannot fly, which is why this one stayed fixed, as I took several photos. Click to enlarge.