Larry Gibbons
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Mice and Snow

7/2/2017

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Picture
Christmas Tree Farm on our Road
I think Houdini, the escape-artist mouse whom I caught and set free somewhat less than two miles from our trailer, has made it back to our abode. (See Blog 63: “Houdini”  ).

Why do I think this? Because the damn mice are now entering the foyer of our ‘live mouse trap’, finishing off the peanut butter and then vacating our sure-fire trap in an orderly fashion. We haven’t caught a single mouse.

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Live Mouse Trap
Hell, I’ve even seen them, late at night, inside the live trap. However, in the morning, when I went outside to warm up the truck and then returned to collect the mouse and escort him to the warm vehicle in order to taxi him or her to a new home, he or she had slipped away into some dark and mysterious trailer place.
You know what else I think? I think Houdini is a gifted instructor. I think he’s teaching late night and early morning courses. Giving mice instructions on how to escape from our variety of traps. Escapology One, Two and Three.

I’ll also tell you why I’m thinking this and it’s not just because the mice are pigging out on our peanut butter and not worrying a whit about getting caught.

You see, last night, around two am, while I was stumbling around the kitchen, trying to find the outdoor light switch, so I could turn it on and look outside to see amazing weather phenomena and any of the night creatures who might be sneaking around our trailer while we’re in la-la land, I heard a squeaky mouse voice.

Picture
Mouse-hunting Fox in our Yard
I heard the voice just after I’d stubbed my toe on the kitchen chair. His utterances drifted up from the bowels of the trailer’s internal workings. And the lecture seemed to be about our traps and how to escape from them.

I specifically heard this bit of scholarly conversation:  “Squeaky, let’s say you’re eating a meal in what you assumed was a mouse greasy-spoon diner. And let’s say you’ve just finished your peanut butter meal and you’re ready to leave a tip and be gone. You get to the exit and my gosh, there’s a metal barrier in front of you and you can’t find a way out. What do you do?”

“Don’t panic, Sir Houdini.”

“That’s the very first thing you do. You don’t panic. You sit down and assess the situation. Then what do you do? Anybody else? Nobody? Okay, what we’re going to do is go visit a live trap which has been conveniently set up for our instruction and edification. And when we’re finished, you’re going to know it from head to stern. You’ll all be able to take one apart and put it back together with your eyes closed and you’ll all be able to weasel your way out of the traps as if there were no tomorrow. Just think how much this will improve your quality of life!

“Follow me, please and don’t forget to pray for our comrades who have been forced to emigrate from our home-sweet-home.”

And my, oh my! I could hear such a scurrying and a sliding in our walls and under our floor. I thought, “My god, how many of them are there?”

I wished I hadn’t watched the movie, ‘Willard’ earlier in the evening.

Later on, when I was back in bed, I could hear the sound of those unescapable hinges and doors opening and closing. Which, I assumed, were caused by the mice practising their escape skills.
***
Picture
ICE GLISTENING ON MOUNTAIN
A few days ago, I went searching for a Houdini-escape-proof live trap. I visited the local hardware store, but they didn’t have any other live traps.

They did have a rather intriguing death trap. I didn’t buy it. It was a deadly trap that looked like a live trap, but wasn’t. 

It was a contraption that had a foyer, as does my now-useless-after-Houdini-returned-live-easy-to-escape-trap. However, inside the peanut butter room, it had some kind of killing machine. When the mouse entered, it zapped the mouse into infinity before the poor mouse had a chance to chow down on one morsel. Theoretically, one only had to remove the trap’s roof and remove the dead mouse. Hopefully, completely dead and not suffering.

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Icy Mountain Dwarfs My Truck
***
Are there any other reasons, besides the reasons I gave in Blog 63, for my not buying traps which kill mice? Yes, there are.

You see, last summer, I purposely let a wasp nest be. This experiment is also described in an earlier blog post. The nest thrived under my step-ladder for the whole summer until it was blown away by a hurricane.

The experiment, in my mind, was a success, except of course for the hurricane disaster. Because, in spite of all the chitter-chatter about how mean wasps are, those wasps and I thrived. And in spite of the fact that the nest was only around the corner beside the wood-shed,  where I often ate and drank, we got along splendidly.

Only a few, maybe ten wasps, came close to me. Cross my heart! And I believe it was only out of curiosity and maybe to make sure the terms of our treaty were being followed.  Why, they gave me less trouble than a neighbour dropping around to borrow some sugar or to drop off religious pamphlets.

I do, however, worry about the cold weather and other hazards the mice must face, but these are genuine field mice and they know how to survive.

Plus, I did some research and learned that the fairly radical animal rights organization called PETA has declared that releasing them into the wild is the most humane way of treating your wild field mice intruders.

“The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit,—-not fossil earth, but a living earth; compared with whose great central life all animal and vegetable life is merely parasitic.”
                                                                                                Henry Thoreau, "Walden"

Picture
Ice Art
Picture
Winter Wonderland

I don’t want to state that my mouse and wasp handling techniques could be applied to the situation the world is finding itself in, but I will. Because there is an elephant charging around in our only earth’s very large foyer and this elephantoid creature’s name isn’t Jumbo.

So, I think that my experiment might be applied to some governments and might be an alternative approach to how they perceive and treat foreigners and strangers. Because I think there are all kinds of ways of being a good Samaritan.

Plus, when I see our ‘AS-WE-MOVE-FORWARD’ society relentlessly and thoughtlessly injuring, destroying, or being unaware of the infinite number of living organisms that are part of our world, well, I think my experiment was worthwhile.


“It is only when the gods finally begin to die completely out of the land and when many human beings begin to live totally divorced from nature -at the beginning, that is, of the modern age-that landscape painting, picturesque architecture and landscape description——become the obsessive themes of art.”
                                                                                                                          Vincent Scully

***
Picture
Too Much Snow For Buster
Picture
My Old Truck
I think the mystery of why all our Evening Grosbeaks have disappeared has been solved. We usually have about forty-to-sixty of them in the winter. A hardware store employee told me that an agile hawk will scare them away.

We’d had an agile hawk hunting around our bird feeders just before the grosbeaks disappeared. The grosbeaks, apparently, got out of town and are now supping at our friend’s bird feeder, which is situated in downtown Baddeck.

We hope they come back next year.

Picture
Sue and Buster on their daily walk down our road
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Bite Me!

13/8/2016

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Picture
A few weeks ago, on a hazy Sunday afternoon, I was at a friend’s house getting pricked and poked by a mob of downed crab apple branches. Have you ever seen the size of those thorns? Two inches at least. I’m glad I’m not scared of needles.

Anyway, while I was doing this, Sue was at home, sitting on the deck, swatting at black flies and feeling Buster’s love, as he was sharing some quality time with Sue.
Suddenly, a moose appeared out of somewhere and Buster was off like a shot and then, so was the moose.

We’ve been told that our acreage—who really owns acreage?—-is a moose highway. This route meanders between the mountain range to the south of us and the mountain range to the west of us. Lucky us. I mean it. Really.

You may not know this, but a moose can outrun a dog the likes of Buster Boy. But, well, let me tell you another story.
Years ago, I used to have a wee rust-bucket 1962 VW Beetle. By the time I’d junked it, it had had almost every one of its organs replaced, including the motor and transmission.

(Note the two ‘its’ and the two ‘hads’ following each other in the previous sentence. This is what makes a writer’s life so gol-darned exhilarating. Sometimes I can hardly contain myself.)

Anyway, there was this big blustery fella who liked to have everything big. Big cars, big noises, big these and big thats. We used to park our vehicles near each other on a gravel parking lot.

One day, when I met him in the parking lot, he challenged me and my wee little handicapped, under-powered car to a drag. His vehicle was a 1961 V-8 Buick powerhouse. The drag would start at the back of the parking lot and end at the street entrance. It was a pretty casual affair.

So we started our engines, gentlemen, and lined up. He revved his engine. I burped my engine. A surrogate flag of some sort was dropped and we were off. Or at least I was, because this fella’s powerhouse car just sat in one spot and spun and spun and spun. My little beetle hiccuped forward and was at the street before the monster even got mobile.

I think this race happened because I’d mentioned that on a short race track, a race horse could probably beat this fella’s car. This guy was very competitive and he wanted to show me that I was wrong. As if I’m not competitive!

Anyway, I guess he thought he could prove I was wrong by having this race. His car being the car and my car being the race horse that looked like a ladybug.

Picture
Moose
So, in the animal world, Buster was my 1962 Beetle and the moose was this fella’s 1960 V-8 Buick. And Sue gawked at Buster’s speedy acceleration and at the gigantic moose spinning his hoofs. And as she saw them racing across our lot toward the quiet forest and into the beyond, all this drama was quickly ended by a law of physics.

The law that says: A two-hundred-foot rope tied to the neck of a hell-bent canine will stop this fuzzy streaker’s inertia faster than the sudden acceleration when the overly excited canine began.

However, it took Sue’s heart longer to decelerate than Buster’s and likely that of the ghost of the forest as well. Which, I think, is one of the phrases they use to describe a moose, along with sayings like, “Your mother wears army boots”.   

Picture
Our Busy Bird Feeders
***
Before I begin this Maritime Mac story I would like to make a little disclaimer or confession. Most of my M.M. stories are close to true, but not totally non-fictional. There’s usually a teeny, weeny bit of artistic license buried in the MM tales. So, you’ve been forewarned.

Here’s the next Maritime Mac adventure. Mostly true.

Maritime Mac likes to cycle, just like me. And, like me, he sometimes finds it repetitious and boring if he rides the same route over and over again. So, of course, he does other routes, like me. Seems sensible.

You see, his get-in-shape route is a 13.6 K ride to the Middle River Hall and back again. This is the route he cycles the most often and from time to time it can be a tiny bit tedious. Not a lot tedious though, because there is always something to see, smell, hear or feel.

Picture
Perfect example of seeing and smelling!
On this training route there are four dogs for Maritime to worry about. There is, however, another route which is 19.6 K and which goes to a now extinct baseball diamond. On that route there are six canines to worry about. Some of these dogs are huge. Two look like part bull-dog and part rottweiler.
Picture
Curious deer along the way...
Because, as I said, the training route can get a bit overly familiar at times, Maritime Mac has made up a game. This game, which he calls a road game, in contrast to a board game, contains only a few parts. They are: Maritime Mac, his bike, a dog and a stop sign. Maritime calls the game, ‘Sneak By the Dog.”

Now, it should be noted that the opposition, which is a medium-sized, yappy, canine mixture of dog and woof, is a fella who, once he gets his barking motor going, has difficulty shutting it off. He’ll start barking when he sees Maritime and, even after Maritime has biked the last K and a half to his house, has stripped down, taken a shower, dried off and is back outside to feed and water his bike, (which he calls ‘Hornet’), he can sometimes still hear the dog bow-wowing into the highland sky.

This dog is tied up along the side of his owners’ house. He’s hitched to his own little dog house. Maritime doesn’t know his name so he calls him Spot. See Spot bark. Woof, woof.

Picture
Spot

Anyway, here’s the goal of the game. If Maritime, on the way back, (The 'Way Back' Rule), can bike past the dog and make it to the stop sign, which is about a hundred yards down the road, without Spot barking at Maritime, then Maritime gives himself a point by sticking one of his right hand’s fingers out and saying, “One point for me.”

 If Spot barks before Maritime makes it to the stop sign then Spot gets a point. Maritime will stick one of his left hand’s fingers out and say, “One point for Spot.”

Saying these phrases out loud helps Maritime avoid the Senior’s Brain Fart Syndrome.

Another rule I should mention, is Maritime is not to look at Spot when he passes Spot’s house. This is the ‘Innocence is Bliss’ rule.  It must be noted, at this point, that the game can never be considered totally fair because Spot has no idea that he is in this competition.

By the way, the game only goes to five. I’m sure you can guess why. Therefore, the winner is the first competitor to get to five fingers. It’s called the ‘Five Fingers’ Rule.

***
“Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man had hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity. I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand, instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb-nail.”
                                                        D.H. Thoreau, “Thoreau On Man & Nature ”

***
Anyway, one sunny, but cool day, with the wind a pleasant and gentle breeze and only a day after ‘Thumper’ had snowed Cleveland under a foot of sad bullshit, Maritime was breezing by Spot’s house. Not looking at his highly skilled competitor. His eyes focused on the stop sign. Pedaling as quietly as he could, avoiding gravel and noisy road surface stuff. Riding, riding, riding by the house. Not looking. The stop sign up ahead. Maritime’s fingers on alert, on both hands. Totally neutral. Left or right? Left or right?

“Woof, woof!”

“Oh nuts,” Maritime whispered. “Five to three for the dog. Looks like I’ve lost.” And he’d left the trophy at home.


Suddenly, “OMG!!” Maritime whispered, in the way only somebody on social media, such as a blogger, can curse and show genuine concern and fear. “OMG!!”

Spot wasn’t tied up, but wasn't he always tied up? It was part of the game. It was an unwritten rule. Spot had broken the rule and was barreling for old Maritime.

Maritime stopped his bike while Spot circled around the bike like a hunting wolf.
Maritime pulled out his water bottle. Tried to look cool. Took a swig of the warm water. Began to talk to the dog like he was Spot’s friend. Talked about the weather and about climate warming, those kinds of things. Tried to impress him with the human power of proper, grammatically correct speech.

It should be noted that Maritime sometimes, from time to time, has the tendency to put his foot into his mouth.

Anyway, “Woof, woof, woof and grrrrrrrr,” Spot replied, using only verbs. Bad dog.
Then he began to lunge forward and lunge backward. Parry and thrust. Snap, snap and so close to Maritime’s bare leg that Maritime could feel Spot’s hot breath on his leg.

Picture
Maritime tried offering Spot a drink. “Would you like a drink?”

Spot’s growl got to sounding more vicious.

“Holy crap,” Maritime whispered. He had to get the hell out of there. This dog, this competitor in this made-up game, was becoming frenzied in his attention to detail. In a game where he’d suddenly changed the rules.

  So, Maritime sprayed water square into Spot’s mug. However, his ammunition was low, because he had drunk most of it. The water strategy seemed to work, however, because Spot backed off. Watched Maritime intently while his lips curled and folded above his shiny white teeth. It looked like Spot didn’t like water in his snozzle. So, Maritime took a trial pedal forward.

Spot watched him. Still on hair-trigger alert.

Maritime might have been let off the hook, at this point, if he hadn’t had his macho streak. The element that makes him want to win. So much. Made him want to get in the last word, as mentioned previously.

Because, as he began some serious pedaling, with Spot only watching him and growling, but not making a move to charge, Maritime fell back into his old pattern.
So, as he was cycling his escape and as he was feeling the power and seeing the distance pile up between him and the slightly catatonic dog, he twisted his head around, looked at Spot’s confused, dripping face, and shouted, with the wind clearly carrying Maritime’s aggressive and competitive words to the dog, “BITE ME!”

OMG!!!.

Final score:   Dog five.   Maritime Ten stitches.   Game over.   For good.

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