Invasion!! Grab Your Pitchforks and... Hey, Good Thing I Found the Spade.

Posted on Tuesday 1 August 2006 at 08:59

So I head outside into the cloudy grey evening, judging that the sky's swaddles will quickly pass over. What is this clearing toward evening business? Can't there be a night of rain?

I go to the garden and find the romaine bolting. Shucks. Time to start a new patch for the fall, for sure. But it's okay, since we're getting into cukes and beans and all manner of good things. The corn is beginning to form ears. The kids are counting them every day.

But as to the lettuce, I desire a little tillage before I go to sow. On the behest of that need, I head for the rototiller (walk-behind, not garden tractor) which has been parked ready at hand for a couple of weeks near the garden. No rain -- no need to worry about putting it away.

I bend down and spend probably ten minutes cleaning the dried weeds out of the tines, not with total success. Oh, well. We'll give it a try, it's almost clear. I check the fuel, and as I turn the cap of the fuel tank, it seems to draw a string inside the vented top of the motor.

What?!? This makes no sense. The fuel cap is certainly not connected to anything. And nothing in the fuel tank runs out to the rest of the engine except the invisible vein buried within the workings.

There's enough fuel to do the little I have in mind. So I seize the pull-start and give the cord a yank.

The motor coughs as if something's caught in its throat, and promptly spits two grey-and-white hairballs out the side.

I stare, aghast, as young deer mice stagger woozily near my feet. Egads! Purveyors of destruction, mess and hantavirus! And the dog and the cat are nowhere in sight!

The mice aren't exactly quick on their feet, so I stand there calling for my trusty hound. Not a sound from anywhere. They're starting to slowly wander away. I'll have to do something drastic fairly shortly. Yes, indeed... I've been deserted by the very labour force we acquired for just this sort of task.

In desperation, I grab the old potato fork handle. It's just a handle, no fork. Someone dispensed with that part of it last year. Cringing, I take two solid whacks at the interlopers. Job done. I had no idea how easy killing mice was. Here, I thought my children were embarking on violent rampages whenever they found and stomped them.

Just then, who should arrive but the Trusty Hound. I point her to the conveniently pre-slaughtered prey, and she has a wee look at it.

Two deer mice... Where there are two.... I firmly set my vestiges of British stiff upper lip, now knowing why I've inherited so much of my English grandmother. It was for moments like these.

Once again, I give the pull-start a whirl, and as I do, I see something go spinning inside the top of the tiller. Three more little sacks of disease-on-legs come flying out. One isn't quite so dizzy, and makes a run for it as I'm futilely trying to get the Hound's attention. The other two are sitting there still, so I take after the escaping rodent. This gets the Hound's interest, and when she sees me attacking the critter as it ducks and weaves into the corn patch, she finally gets a glimmer of what she should be doing right now. She barrels after it with her silly ears pricked, snuffling madly. Visions of my corn patch being knocked flat make me cringe almost as much as the completion of my mouse-dispatching duties.

The Hound makes a fine job of it, actually catching her prey. But finish it? No. She carries the hapless hanta-breathing mini-monster to the lawn and lets it go. Then she watches it toddle around sopping wet, while stepping on it every so often to keep it in check. When it tries to make one last dash, she grabs it and gives it a fling through the air.

"Good girl!" I cheer her, hoping she'll get serious about it.

Meanwhile, The Cat has wandered up. She's clearly not hungry. She's in heat, and all she'd really like is to be friends with everyone and everything. She gives the mouse a few little pats of the paw.

Good grief. I go back to the garden, take up arms again, and finish it. What a pair of useless yard animals.

For those of you sitting there aghast at my harshness, please understand: White-bellied mice are literally a hazard to human life in this area. They can carry the hantavirus, for which there's no known cure. Someone in one of the nearby towns died of it about five years back.

Around here, we take special precautions when cleaning up mouse leavings of any kind -- bleach it down first to disinfect and suppress dust particles, and wear a dust mask. We'd heard tell that 90% of the farmers down Minto way were immune due to constant low-level exposure from working with hay bales where the mice had often been. But I don't think I'll trust in that.

Way to go

Posted by MrsBurns on Wednesday 2 August 2006 at 02:13 - Link

I was laughing out loud at the visual but glad you got them varmits done in. Scary little critters. I feel the same way about ticks.
DeniseB

Ugh mice

Posted by frugalmel on Monday 7 August 2006 at 04:18 - Link

Ok, I am a softy for animals, but I know that mice can be major problems. I'm not sure if I have the "stuff" to get them gone the old fasioned way, but I'm glad you did. Hopefully their cousins won't move in! I enjoyed reading about your garden.