Rambling Mouse

With all the barns, outbuildings and old farms around here, there's no need for our local rodent community to bother with new housing construction. There are oodles of servicable nesting spots, just a short scuttle away from plentiful food -- everything from spilled grain to brimming bowls of dog and cat food.

Yet one resourceful rodent decided that a house on wheels was the way to go. At least that's what my neighbor Liz discovered last week when noxious gas fumes permeated her car's interior.

The source of the smell: a hose beneath the hood was spurting gas in geiser fashion. In this case the vandal turned out to a be mouse, who left telltale chew marks in the hose and a cozy little nest in the air cleaner.

Perhaps this mouse had been outcast from the local colony and forced to make due with a mobile home. Maybe he was plagued with wanderlust and wanted an RV.

No matter, the mouse nest was razed and thanks to a $47 part, Liz's car is roadworthy again.

Critters

I was changing in the gym locker room the other day, when I overheard some woman blathering on about her vacation to her beach house and how her perfect holiday was ruined because they heard some critter in the wall. And they couldn't possibly think of setting one foot in the house... with some vile creature lurking in their blessed abode....

And I thought to myself: snob. Vacation-home owning princess. Chicken.

Scared off by a little skittering in the wall. Please. Get over yourself.

But the next day I traipsed up to our attic to straighten up and spied a long-deceased, severely decomposed rat.

The largest rat I'd ever seen in my life.

Immediately, I retreated and ordered Martin to do his husbandly duties -- get that thing out of the house instantly! Even though the mangled vermin was long dead -- likely a victim of the February's pest control call -- I couldn't bring myself to venture back into the attic. The image of the super-sized rat was burned into my mind.

Apparently it had the same effect on Martin who immediately called pest control for a follow up visit. And he was downright giddy when he phoned today to say that the pest control guy inspected our petrified rat carcass and announced that it wasn't a rat. It was a squirrel.

What a relief! Just a cute, fuzzy, acorn-stashing squirrel that lost its way.

Some say that squirrels are nothing but rats with bushy tails. But I disagree. Rats are dirty, sinister, disease ridden vermin. Squirrels are cute and fuzzy! So what if it's all about the tail?

The second nugget of news: not only is the house rodent-free but Martin's office -- the original "Mouse House" -- is not infested either. The source of recent scratching and scrabbling that we heard is none other than the barn cats, commuting through a roof breezeway that connects the hay loft to the milk parlor.

So for those keeping track in 2010, it's Martin and Jo: 1. Nature: 0.

Rodent revenge

Mice are a fact of life on a farm. Kind of like death and taxes. Field mice love barns for the constant source of grain and shelter. And when winter comes, it's time to move into the big house where it's toasty warm.

A few months ago, fed up with the squeaking and scratching in the walls, we hired a cracker-jack mouse killer. (See execution day.) Just one visit and it was Mission accomplished.

Unfortunately, the mice have had the last laugh.

The attic stinks to high-heaven of dead, rotting rodents trapped in the walls.

And this comes just after we've gotten rid of the stink that permeated the kitchen from Drippy's butt -- god rest his feline soul. (see drippy passes) Now, I'm haunted by the stench of decaying mice in the attic. (Hmm, don't think I'm a worthy PR rep for rural living... "Say goodbye to the concrete jungle for a more gentile setting, the rolling hills and vistas, the woods and wildlife, and the aroma of cat poop and rotting mice...").

I've been avoiding the attic for a while. Instead of storing stuff in its proper place, I've been hurling said-object into the attic stairwell and slamming the door. But yesterday in search of wrapping paper, I had to scale a mountain of luggage, shoes, outgrown baby clothes, an empty computer box, vacuum cleaner, backpack, box of christmas ornaments, box fan and a tower of paperback books. I realized it was time to face the stink.

No great words of wisdom on the Google under the search "smell of dead mice." Use vinegar to absorb the odor. Charcoal briquets. Baking soda. Coffee grounds. But most admitted that these things helped but didn't eliminate the smell.

So, armed with baking soda, vinegar and 3 plug-in air fresheners, I burst into the attic and threw open the windows.

And today I noticed a change. No longer do I detect the air of decay.

Now when I go up stairs, I'm greeted by the aroma of Glade Spring Scent, vinegar, and rotting rodents....

Execution day commeth

Alright you little F-ers. How do I say this delicately? Pack your sh*t and go because we're exterminating your asses. And when I say "we" I'm talking about a hired gun, the queen bee of rodent control -- these guys have like a 90% approval rating in the Washington checkbook. They are NOT to be trifled with. They are killing machines and they will be here tomorrow afternoon. So, final warning: get out!

I've had it about up to here (hand above head) -- Drippy has defiled our mudroom and the stink is seeping into the kitchen. (I hope it doesn't scare away pest control), the kids are running amok in the house, then at night when it's finally quiet, all I hear is skittering and chewing in the walls.

At this moment, I don't have a solution for the first two problems but you guys, eradication city.

Now, if you were cute like Remy, and you could whip up an omelet, maybe we could have worked something out.

The walls have ears

I hear you guys...skittering in the wall between the kitchen and fireplace.

And in as much as I appreciate the company during the day, ya'll have got to hit the road.

Where the heck is Blackie, the black snake who lives and mouses in the cellar? I imagine him being bum-rushed by a rodent posse, bound and gagged, and stuffed into some dark corner of the house.

Come back Blackie, we need you!

You can run but you can't hide

I can see where Stephen King came up with his freaky ideas about killer pets.

I'm holed up in the cellar -- as removed as possible from life on the farm. Just me, my laptop....and a chilling, guttural yowl. I'm being stalked. By Drippy.


Drippy, now 20 yrs old, was originally christened "Smokey" by his former owner, a vet, who allegedly acquired the kitten in exchange for veterinary services. Smokey went on to father a litter and quickly realized that parenthood wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He bolted...next door. "Barn cat #2," as he was called by the farm's former owners, conveyed with the farm.

We immediately named him Drippy for the long strings of saliva that seeped from his jaw when he purred...and for no apparent medical reason (Trust me, I took him to the vet clinic; $125 later he was was vaccinated and declared a happy, healthy cat who "drools profusely when excited.")

Since then he's been a royal pain the neck. He's an utterly useless mouser. He is quick to claw friend or foe and is constantly looking for a way inside. Leave the door cracked for a moment while unloading groceries and he's in. Good luck dragging him out again. When he's out, he's lobbying to be let in, meowing at window or door.

Most recently, he endeared himself by pooping in our mudroom b/c he's decided that it's too cold and icy to leave the mudroom. My husband said that's it, time's up on that cat. I wavered and we've compromised with a litter box in the mudroom. I'll just put it this way... sometimes he nails the target.

His one saving grace? The one thing that keeps us from digging a hole in the orchard? He loves the kids. And unfortunately, the feeling is mutual....