By Staff
I am "Bwana Don," brave hunter of wild animals. I have been chased by African elephants, surrounded by dozens of hippopotami ready to swallow me in a single gulp and narrowly escaped execution by terrorists while sleeping in a Rhodesian (now Zimbabwe) game preserve.
I know what it's like to have a machine gun held to my head. I am not a weak-spirited person.
So, the past two weekends I have bravely fought a battle with the wild animals, and as far as I know, I have won.
But I'm not sure.
Donning my pith helmet, clad in my safari togs and with elephant gun in hand, I set out to fight the enemy (mostly in my dreams) at our Lake Michigan cottage. The enemy? Mice! Mice! And more mice!
Our cottage is a true cottage – unprotected from invasions of mice.
During the winter months these little critters like to invade and take possession of human territory.
With no human interference at the ready, they seem to ignore mothballs scattered on carpets and on beds and furniture in the fall when the cottage is closed for the winter. They seem immune to D-Con.
To add insult to injury, they locate choice morsels of fabric and pillow stuffing and haul it away to make comfortable nests in which to spend the cold winter months.
Then the weather warms. Spring arrives. And the humans return. DRAT! Head for the hills! The enemy has returned!
I found four huge mouse nests in secret places in our cottage.
The critters had amassed large amounts of fabric and left unimaginable messes.
Three of these critters were brave enough not to flee when I arrived. As far as I know, they are now dead. DEAD! The trophies were brought back in a garbage bag.
My mission last weekend was to search out these "secret places."
I didn't need night-vision goggles or radar or any of the currently sophisticated spy equipment.
I KNEW where they were and I stalked them until they panicked. They ran. They squirmed, and then they finally died.
Well, the truth of the matter is, I run from mice! They terrify me! I didn't have my pith helmet on. I didn't really wear my safari garb. I was bare-footed and wearing shorts and T-shirt.
I opened a cabinet and the mouse jumped out at me.
I screamed! I jumped! I disgraced my gender!
Dickens, my trusted side-kick, looked up at me as if to say, "Have you lost your mind? What on earth are you screaming about?" But at last I gained my composure and set traps, baited with select Danish cheese, of all things. They ate the expensive cheese and died!
Now four nests are gone. Three mice are dead. And all their telltale droppings are cleaned and the surfaces sanitized. The cottage is now rid of vermin. At least I think so.
The battle is over. I can remove my pith helmet and safari garb, put away my elephant gun (at least in my imagination) and enjoy the rest of the summer, sans mice.
And my dog is relieved that I have recovered from my fright.