I like almost all critters. I think mice are sort of cute at a distance and far, far away from my house. All our children (Bing and I had five, in case you are new to this column) inherited their parents’ affection for God’s creatures. Bing’s affinity for all creatures great and small dated back to when he was about four and found an injured-soon-to-be-dead bird in his yard. His mother told me she watched out the window as he wept over the tiny body, then asked for her help in giving it a lovely funeral.
Our oldest daughter, Heather, once found an ailing baby mouse in her garage, took it in, nursed it back to health and kept it in a comfy cage for over a year, until it finally died. She did have a bit of a time keeping the family’s three cats away from Mousie’s cage, but eventually they grew bored with watching it when they figured out it was never going to be their lunch.
I bring all this up to explain why our house smells of moth balls. It’s not because I have mice, or even one mouse. But I thought I did. We have a back porch where I store things. As opposed to our front porch, which is for sitting and enjoying the view of the neighborhood, not for storing things. Ditto the side porch, which is open and also for sitting and enjoying a slightly different view of the neighborhood. And also for providing a spot for feeding Christopher Robin, the stray cat who has been helping himself to breakfast here every day for many, many months. His mother before him, St. Francis, also enjoyed dining here, as I have written before and I’m assuming you all remember my stories about her and if you don’t, don’t tell me. My feelings are easily hurt.
I am including a picture of Christopher Robin above. Because I can.
Among the items stored on the back porch are a sack of dog food (for Seamus, my adopted German shepherd about whom I have also written and expect you to remember) and a sack of cat food for Christopher Robin. One morning, to my horror, I found the sack of cat food had been nibbled on by a night visitor. I knew this because the corner of the sack was torn and the food was spilling out. I’m quick that way. I immediately suspected an uninvited mouse had done this. However, I was wrong.
The next morning while it was still dark out, I let Seamus out on the back porch where he then goes outside through a newly-installed doggy door. On the morning in question, he charged full steam ahead onto the porch and sailed out the doggy door with his paws hardly touching the floor. There ensued sounds of a tussle, then a great thumping coming from under the porch. I immediately deduced this was no mouse he was chasing. I’m quick that way.
I stood terror stricken, unable to move until he came back in with nothing in his mouth, thank God! I had long suspected there were critters living under the porch, possibly cute little bunnies. Seamus often sniffed intently around the lattice-work upon which the porch rests, but I never saw any bunnies. Because it wasn’t a bunny, it was a raccoon.
Said raccoon was the mouse that wasn’t.
I finally timidly ventured out when it was daylight, but found no traces of the raccoon, which led me to believe Seamus had merely chased it back under the porch.
So I bought a sack of moth balls (research revealed raccoons don’t like moth balls) and scattered them around the lattice work. I think it worked, because there have been no further episodes of theft – I also now keep the door inside the doggy door firmly closed at night.
The only flaw in this somewhat happy ending is that the aroma of the moth balls is not confined to the back porch.
Which is why my house smells of moth balls.
I thought you’d want to know.