Wild Life

     Here in Lightfall Hollow, it’s a wild life.

     Squirrels are eating my house. And I mean that literally. Every day, a family of gray squirrels and a lone wolf of a red squirrel gnaw upon the pine board and batten of the cabin’s exterior. Although my and my husband’s home is a modest one, it is not at all uncared-for, and it has a warm, hospitable charm. But the squirrels are demolishing both its wood and charm. Those twitchy, incessant nibblers with the revoltingly orange, chisel-shaped teeth are bringing my house down and making it ratty.

    While their rodent relatives, mice, ransack its interior. Many an expensive roll of toilet paper I have had to toss because some pilfering mouse decided to shred off and spirit away several of its tissues to line their squatter’s nest. Many a costly food I have had to trash because some freeloading mouse decided to stuff their greedy snout with my toothsome grub.

     Although, truth is, I honestly wouldn’t mind mice and their thieving ways so much if only the balloon-eared, twinkly-eyed, wiggly-whiskered, and really pretty cute little moochers were housebroken, but they are not. What’s more, they apparently are not even willing to give potty training a go. I have concluded this on the just grounds that not a single one has ever once taken me up on using the miniature, mouse-size pan replete with kitty litter I have periodically set out for their private and intimate use.

     Perhaps it is just as well because, in addition to being indiscriminate excreta depositors, I have read from reliable sources that mice can carry a number of harmful diseases directly transmittable to humans. While they are indirect spreaders of Lyme disease. Since mice are often the first hosts for tick larvae. Mice then frequently infect the tick larvae with the pathogens that cause Lyme disease in humans and other mammals.

     Even more vexing, squirrels and mice are not the only bad actors in Lightfall Hollow. Deer devour my prized mountain laurel, English ivy, hostas, daylilies, and one and only hemlock, a birthday gift from a dear friend. While rabbits and porcupines strip the wood’s baby hardwood trees of their protective bark and sweet little growing twiglets. Moles tunnel through the tubers and roots of my flower gardens as chipmunks dig up my bulbs. Turkeys tear up the lawn, and groundhogs scoop out ankle-twisting holes. Raccoons, opossums, and foxes invade the storage shed, overturn the garbage bin, along with another can filled with koi food, and help themselves to both household table scraps and pet fish kibble.

     Snakes curl up in the wood pile. Birds somehow find their way into the screened-in porch and rip holes in the fine mesh with their beaks and talons. A blue heron and a kingfisher steal bluegill, crayfish, frogs, and salamanders from the pond. (Fortunately, the koi are too big for them to abduct.)

     A cardinal throws himself against the cabin’s windows, ostensibly attacking his own reflection. The cardinal will do this for days on end, from sunup to sundown, over and over again, driving me crazy. So crazy that I have, on a few occasions, in a moment of complete insanity, pounded on my side of the window and shouted out to him, “Hey, if you really hate yourself that much, why don’t you change?” (Luckily, there are no neighbors here in the hollow to report me to the mental health authorities.)

     A skunk has its home underneath the back deck. Every evening, it comes out and parades around the cabin’s perimeter, polluting the pure mountain night air with its overwhelming stink.

     Coyotes and bears roam the encircling hills, causing our little house dog, who would not last a minute on her own in the wild, to jump up on the easily marred leather furniture, clawing at the leather and barking in a frenzied fit that goes on long after the coyote or bear has moved on. While also sending the poor cat into terrified hiding and driving me as crazy as the

aforementioned crazy cardinal.

     It’s a wild life in Lightfall Hollow.

     And thank goodness. Because here’s the other truth. As exasperated as I can become with the hollow’s wildlife and our endless war over property ownership, more often than not, I am grateful for the wonderful woodland creatures who share their home with me. They supply so much of what is needed for the survival of this land that I love.

     Animals fertilize and aerate soil, enhance plant decomposition and the getting of organic matter deeper into the soil. They transport nutrients, spread seeds, reduce plant dominance, help with shaping the terrain’s plant composition and the creation of plant diversity. They keep animal populations, including pest populations, under control. They dispose of carrion. In sum, they keep the hollow alive, healthy, and growing, and they give more than they take. I wish I could be certain the same two things are true of me.

     What’s more, animals are a vital part of what makes Lightfall Hollow beautiful, fun, and a place where there is always something interesting to learn and appreciate.

     Take for instance the mice and squirrels. Wild things that I sometimes falsely refer to as “good-for-nothing beasts.” Not only do both mice and squirrels contribute numerous positives to the ecosystem, they provide tremendous amounts of astonishing, captivating, and hilarious entertainment.

     When it comes to jumping, climbing, and balancing, mice are in the acrobatic big leagues. They can jump vertically three to four times their own height and do so without a running start. When jumping horizontally, they can span two feet in a single bound. Which is at least six times the length of their body, not counting the tail.

     Mice can scale almost any wall and shimmy up and down poles. My son claims he recently saw a New York mouse tenaciously attempting to do a handstand, and I believe him. Mice may ordinarily be known for their timidity, but what they have much more of is spunk.

     As for squirrels, I shall never tire of watching their death-defying leaps from swaying tree branch to swaying tree branch or observing them scamper headfirst down a tree trunk. (This extraordinary feat made possible by the fact that squirrels’ back ankles can rotate a full 180 degrees.)

      I have also seen squirrels stretch themselves into poses that would make a master yogi jealous, execute tumbling moves that would give a professional gymnast a run for their money, and perform gravity-mocking twists, spins, flips, and suspensions in the air that would put the greatest trapeze artist to shame. Squirrels may at times frustrate me to tears, yet they never fail to

make me laugh.

     On the whole, I like and admire mice and squirrels. However, to be completely honest, I do kill mice. Initially, I didn’t. Not that mice were ever whole-heartedly welcome in the cabin. But when mice first became a problem here, I tried repellents. I tried repellents of all kinds, both store-bought and homemade, including ultrasonic devices. When none of those worked, I tried humane traps, where the mouse is caught alive and then relocated by its human trapper. But what that meant for me was, every time I caught a mouse, which was usually in the middle of the night, I had to immediately drive the trapped mouse to another location, and since mice have a strong homing instinct, that location had to be at least two miles away as the crow flies. As to why the trip had to be taken immediately, as I sadly found out with the first mouse I humanely trapped, a mouse will kill itself by relentlessly slamming up against the walls of its humane trap with all its might, trying to escape. As one would expect, here in Lightfall Hollow, humane mouse traps got old very quickly.

     Currently, I am going through a similar dilemma with the squirrels. Once again, I am trying every recommended repellent, store-bought and homemade. Nothing is working. So, I ordered a humane trap. But then it occurred to me that I had better research Pennsylvania state law concerning the trapping and relocating of squirrels. Well, I didn’t get very far with that

because I happened upon some information letting me know that almost all relocated squirrels die. Even more disturbing, given my past, ignorant behavior, the report further said most relocated mice die as well.

     Which, once I thought about it, makes perfect sense. Because relocation is just a polite word for displacement. Moving any living being to a place where they don’t know where to find food, water, and shelter is putting that living being in extreme danger. It is cruel, and doing so knowingly desecrates the wonders of the human heart.

     So now what do I do? I guess I’m going to try something crazy. I know it probably won’t work. I know I am probably naïve and a fool for even trying.

     Be that as it may, I am going to try to give the squirrels something besides my home on which to gnaw. (By the way, gnawing is something squirrels must do. Their teeth grow throughout their entire lives. If a squirrel doesn’t gnaw, their teeth will eventually grow through their skulls, and they will be unable to eat. If a squirrel doesn’t gnaw, sooner or later, it starves to death.)

     Therefore, I have made a list of alternative things on which, according to my research, squirrels like to gnaw, and I am going to try them one by one.

     I know. I know. I’m a crazy person. But the squirrels are nutty too.

     It’s a wild life we share. But it’s a wonderful life too. Wish us luck.