Trapping Wild Creatures; Lessons for the Uninitiated

   

  At 6:45 AM a scream ripped through the upstairs. The dog had discovered a something and chased it into Carol's room. We brushed by each other in the doorway as she exited the area. I shut the door and saw our Lhasa/mix drive a fat chipmunk from under the bed across the room to beneath a stuffed chair. I thanked Chloe for her efforts and ushered her out of the room. Now - what kind of trap would I need to remove this animal.
     My experience with the "have/a/heart" trap has been excellent. Carol's flower gardens were besieged by numerous woodchucks a few years back and I borrowed a trap from a friend. To be successful one must carefully prepare a delicious bait salad. My salad consisted of apple and pear slices, lettuce, carrot sticks and celery, slathered with a peanut butter dressing. I easily trapped five woodchucks that summer (one of which before release had finished every scrap of his salad). The first two animals I hand carried in the trap over a quarter of a mile. I took them around a pond and out into a meadow (absolutely no cows or horses in the area) to a corps of trees. There they were released.
     A sunny morning five days later I looked out a window and saw two woodchucks running side by side across the field toward the back of the house. With sixty paces to go they stopped, appeared to rub noses and split up. One ran to the burrow under the back deck and the other to a burrow in the field bordering the lawn. The next three chucks I trapped were driven miles to a state highway Rest Area (again no cows or horses in the area) bordering vast meadows and with a panoramic view of the Mohawk Valley - they were released. Today happily, we only have one, perhaps two, but certainly not more than three woodchucks residing by the gardens.
     A scream at midnight from Carol's room alerted me to another intruder. I rushed into her room - the light was on and she was under the blankets. "There is something in here and its flying!" At first glimpse it was a dark bird - but no it was a bat. It flew from one side of the room to the other - grabbed on to a curtain, rested for a few seconds and then flew off. For the purpose of capture I chose a pillow case. My plan was simple - keep the bat flying, get it tired and after it lands bag it. It took approximately fifteen minutes of harassment before the bat was exhausted - it landed behind a curtain. Using both hands I covered it with the pillow case, gently squeezed and picked up the almost weightless body.  Down the stairs I rushed and out into a starry night - two gentle flaps of wings and the bat was gone - no problem. Before discovering how that bat gained access to the room and fixing it, there was another scream three weeks later. A pillow case was secured and harassment began. The bat finally collapsed onto the rug and I covered it with the pillow case. But now the wrinkles in the pillow cloth prevented me from determining  precisely where the bat was. So I gently began to press down on each of the lumps until - one lump emitted a cry - like a baby. I scooped it up and outside my friend flew off into the night. That same summer our neighbor Harriet, sought assistance - a bat was flying around her second floor. Armed with my pillow case I slowly ascended the stairs and saw a very active bat. Upon reaching the top step I held the bag open and the bat flew directly into it. I took this as a personal vote of confidence in me by the Order Chiroptera - bats. It was clearly my finest capture - and release.
     To capture the chipmunk now confined to the bedroom I selected a 2x3 foot plastic clothes basket placing it on the floor and covering it with a dark blanket. One corner of the basket was then jacked up with an aspirin bottle making an inviting place for a chipmunk to hide. Now the chipmunk had to be kept moving until it scrambled under the trap and I kicked away the aspirin bottle. My plan worked perfectly and I trapped the chipmunk twice. Unfortunately the little rodent also escaped twice. It proved difficult to slide a cover, sheet or any damn thing between the basket and the floor without offering the diabolical creature enough space to escape. Now it was personal. I selected a smaller basket. Chloe was unleashed and deployed to assist. A rapid chase ensued. Once the chipmunk stopped - the two animals were nose to nose twelve inches apart. Chipmunk, "You want a piece of me"? Chloe, "No, I just enjoy the chase." Again they were off. The chipmunk was finally herded into a restricted space in a closet, the basket was placed over the animal  and then slid carefully into- you guessed it - a pillow case. Released after a two hour encounter a happy chipmunk (Chloe and I also hope our new friend) alternately ran and bounced off into the deep grass and trees.

                                                    
                                                   Brody - photo by Beth Macaulay

Haunted, sort of . . .

  

  Of course I believe in time travel. Most of us experience it, just not the way we would want or expect. A great novel or movie has a flux capacitor that moves us around in time. Or our mind might confuse eras and it simply happens. Standing in the sun in front of a grammar school waiting for my granddaughter Sara, I am asked the reason for my presence. My reply, "I am waiting for Jennifer" instantly rolls away three decades for a few micro seconds and I am again in the warm, beautiful time of my daughter's youth.
     Nor are most of us strangers to a chemically induced trip. For those of us not doing recreational drugs they are surprisingly vivid. I was stretched out on a gurney awaiting minor surgery. The view up was of elongated ceiling lights and waiting I revisited scenes from a movie in which a dying Carlito Brigante stares  up at similar illumination. But now a nurse administers to me a drug and my reverie was instantly replaced by a sharp vision of a brown and white Guinea pig sitting on his haunches and looking straight at me. Behind Jay, the hairy, white profile of a dog - Swede was also staring me down. My old dog seemed slightly embarrassed that Jay stood so assertively in front of him. But both were communicating the same questions. "Are you coming now?" "When are you coming, we are waiting." Emotionally I dropped way, way down - but was also happy to see them. Nurses now quickly rolled me into surgery.
     My father John, died in 1998 at the age of 94 and I have rarely dreamed of him. On a cold, snowy January night in 2008 I arrived in Albany NY from Florida and picked up a rental car - a powerful vehicle with rear wheel drive. Proceeding up the Northway it occurred to me how inexperienced I now was driving in winter conditions. Exiting on to I 88 west the conditions deteriorated - snow swirling and an icy roadway. Occasionally the car began to fishtail. It was then the instructions began - "Slow down!" "No passing." "Stay more to the right." A veritable barrage of orders banged around in my  mind - my father's instructions repeated to me over and over when I was learning to drive (and once in a while through the years when he felt they were needed). "Slow down - a car approaching on your left." "Use your mirror!" So many instructions - once I glanced at the passenger seat to see if he was there. "Gently pump your brakes if you feel a slide beginning." In my mind I answered "Dad, this car has anti lock brakes - we don't need to do that anymore." "OK" he replied "Then slow down some more." The instructions and banter went on for perhaps fifteen minutes and then faded away. I drove on alone.
     I am standing in the snow by the stacked fire wood in the yard of my long ago home. Across the yard Swede is walking from his dog house through the snow towards me. His beautiful white coat is matted with dirt and stuck to his body. There are specks of dirt on his eyes and face. (As I buried Swede I had carefully wrapped up his face to prevent just this from happening.) Now using my foot prints in the snow Swede walks right by me never looking up. He rushes up the back porch steps intent upon getting into the kitchen. There by the radiator, under the table Swede had his sleeping
rug, food dish and water bowl. He wanted to be in his home - we both miss our home.

                                                      
                                            Zoey - photo by Ginny Armington

James F Dyer Ph.D

     Jim Dyer died May 11, 2012 at the age of 76. My daughters alerted me last Fall that he was having issues and had been in the hospital at least twice. Jim's problems were fluids, weakness and medical blah, blah, blah - he slid down hill and died. I had sent him a couple of cards and received a nice note in return. " . . . a few more doctors, a few more pills and I'll be through this."
     I knew him in high school but not very well. He had a tremendous sense of humor and at some point we became friends. We marched in a couple of parades side by side in the first rank as (tall) sailors and he would happily hurl comments at helmeted soldiers, "Avast - air raid wardens!" We dated the sisters Nicotera - in fact I introduced him to Madeline, his future wife of fifty years - and eventually we became brothers-in-law. We had funny times courting the sisters - and occasionally after dates - the fun would continue - we would slip off to dark "joints" to meet up and socialize with their uncle, a hard drinking, macho, kinda racist, short, thin, bald, Italian-American super patriot and veteran of WW 2, Cy Susso. Cy had come to enjoy our company in spite of our lack of Italian ethnicity  (" two (expletive) big guys"!) - and we had fun.
     Jim's daughter "little Annette" (her aunt was rarely called "big Annette") and my daughter Cathy were born about the same time and saw much of each other growing up. We vacationed together even getting Jim to try what he referred to as "that camping shit". Jim was not a great swimmer - he hired another sailor to swim the pool for him in boot camp - but in their second child Jimmy, was collected all the family's swimming DNA - from the earliest age Jimmy Jr. would crab, crawl, totter and stagger into any water be it ocean, lake or brimming bucket.
     Jim may once have saved our father-in-law's life, certainly his sanity. Louie had just carried an open gallon of paint up the stairs to begin painting an apartment. He put it down at the top of the stairs and then inexplicably kicked it over. As a torrent of white poured down the stairs Louie stood at the top, arms raised to the heavens yelling "Jesus Christ on the cross - take me now!!!" Jim had just come through the front door. He quickly picked up a paint brush - and that is how the staircase of the house on Lansing street became white.
     I deeply regret that I never heard Jim, an English professor give a lecture or lead a seminar - reports are that he was charismatic, sceptical and humorous. Through the years we had drifted apart as he became more conservative and I became more liberal. Then Annette and I divorced.
     Two years ago in August I was walking by the Cider Mill and Jim hollered at me from the gift shop. They were all there, Jim, Madeline, "little" Annette and her husband George, young Jim and his wife. We shouted pleasantries and then chatted for a few minutes. I choked up to see them together - now that is a memory I shall carry the rest of my trip.
     I miss Jim and those years ago and Louie - and Uncle Cy.

A Very Good Day

So what constitutes a "very good day" in retirement? Saturday, September 17th, 2011.

I slept reasonably well - but with the assistance of a quarter of a pill. Had breakfast and switched on the TV for early morning news but happily found a soccer game. I watched Blackbury defeat Arsenal 4-3 in a great match (except for the defense). Next I did my weekly computer calculation of my finances and noted with bankster satisfaction that a small pile of equities had added significant digits of value. Then for exercise at 11:00 AM I went over to the Humane Society and worked with Tango, a one year old Chow/Bulldog mix (he had diarrhea), then Honey a Pit mix, "dog aggressive" but with an outstanding repertoire of "tricks". Finally Tara, a brown and white Australian cattle dog, easily upset and a tad mouthy - handled by "K-9 Coaches only". In any event I generously offered Tara and my services to Jay if he needed another dog for his agility course demonstrations - this was Adoptathon Day on campus and there were guests wandering about. Not only was our offer rejected but I was told to "get Tara away from the agility yard".  I felt that Tara and I had been "dissed". But Tara did not seem to notice let alone care - so we walked, I brushed her out, we shared some snacks and soon I didn't care either. Tara is a wise dog. Returned home at 1:30 PM and ate left over Chinese food - absolutely great - then napped briefly. Next I drove downtown to the Hollywood 20 complex and saw Contagion, a fine movie. At home again I immediately scrubbed my hands in hot, soapy water - twice. Drank two vodkas slowly (Russian Standard, a fairly ordinary vodka but the bottle is dramatic) preparing dinner - more leftover Chinese food - and the truth is it was even better than at lunch. I complimented it with a bottle of Modello especial. That evening I watched Notre Dame football beating up Michigan State briefly, couldn't stand it. So I shifted channels and watched some soccer from Estadio Technilogico - Monterey verse Cruz Azul - but it failed to hold my attention. So at 10:00 PM I went to bed to read. There I continued Absolute Monarchs, an overwhelming history of the papacy (i.e. too many characters for my old brain to track, remember and digest.
Occasionally things just all seem to come together and it's a very good day.

Swede's Obit - November 17, 2006

                                     
Swede, my dog and wonderful friend died at the Marquis Ranch in Sarasota County on the morning of November 16th, 2006. At the age of 14+, Swede had a number of health problems one of which was a tendency to stagger. Left unattended - John was on the computer - Swede fell unnoticed into the swimming pool and drown. On medications Swede also had cancer, kidney problems, arthritis and mental deterioration that forced him at night to wander the house. He was buried, in his favorite sleeping position in the St Francis of Assisi Pet Cemetery on the Marquis Ranch.
     Swede at age 4 months was a resident of the Sidney NY Dog Shelter. On a Saturday in March 1992, the Shelter ran the pictures in the Daily Star of twenty dogs and cats looking for homes. John immediately drove to Sidney. After parking the car he could see a line of cages and all save one enclosed a barking dog. A white puppy was sitting on his haunches and like the others was looking in a single direction - but remained silent. John adopted him - a Great White Pyrenees / Husky mix. After a short, petting, licking, love fest "Swede" was named and they went home to Oneonta.

                                                     Molly and Swede

                                            Over 14 years Swede was John's friend and companion. There were only two months of Swede's life that John knew little about. Swede stayed with a friend and during this time he was shot in the left foreleg. Except for this Swede had a good life. At 18 Central Ave he had a run in the backyard and a doghouse that he rarely entered - only in pursuit of a snack. (Swede loved baloney, cheese and rawhide sticks.) He enjoyed the snow and would always roll and frolic in the first white of winter. Summers he enjoyed a good game of ball - happily he would chase and retrieve his deflated soccer ball. There was at least one long walk a day most frequently on the unpaved West End Extension. There he often had a chance to pursue his favorite pass time - chasing deer. He never caught one and in fact on one occasion was chased back to John by an irate and fearless doe. Swede was an excellent dog with the grandchildren - friendly and always gentle.
     Swede had close friends. Molly, a Husky mix, lived at 18 Central Ave for a few years and had a parallel run. Together they shared snacks, walks and scrutinized everyone going up and down the street. The Great Wilber Lake Dog Fight in which Swede, Molly and John were attacked by three dogs and fought together was a Homeric event. Swede was clearly the hero of this fight, savagely defeating and scattering two of the attackers. (Of course he then sat and watched as Molly and John continued to battle the third dog.) Kitty, a perfectly white cat except for a perfectly gray tail also resided at 18 Central and was a good friend. There was Joseph, a misnamed calico cat that repeatedly embarrassed Swede by licking his face and rubbing against him at every meeting. Dolce, a plucky Cocker Spaniel and something of a tart, many times lured Swede away to run with her shoulder to shoulder up into the fields of Fly Creek. They invariably returned covered in mud, manure and on one occasion with a deceased woodchuck. In retirement in Florida Swede enjoyed many play times with Scooter, a tightly wired Papillon. Swede would have liked a better relationship with George, a Yorkie mix, but the latter rejected relationships with "dogs". Finally Swede had several fine walks with a Black Lab, Ana and a very sweet Pug, Oliver.
     My years with Swede (and Molly, Dolce, George and Scooter) clearly suggest to me that canis familiaris is a superior species to homo sapien - they engage not in war, rapine, murder or torture and have no vanity. It is also the ultimate cliche but  Swede was a wonderful friend, "my best friend". I am going to miss him terribly for a long time.
                                                      Sara and Swede

Macy's Obituary

photo by emileefuss.com

Macy died late in the afternoon of Friday, April 8th, 2011. She weighted about fifty pounds and was brown mostly, with some white on her face and the telltale pink nose. Chronologically Macy was three and a half years old. But in terms of life's wear and tear she was ten years plus. The veterinary report stated ". . . Macy has an old cruciate injury* that never healed and she has a luxating patella** on the other leg. Neither leg is a candidate for surgery as the arthritis is too extensive." On one exercise walk Macy's left rear leg seemed to fall out of joint and Christine was able to massage it back into place. Whenever I exercised her, if not actually limping she was usually favoring one leg or the other. At some point in her short life Macy had probably been hit by a car. Over the course of nine months at HSSC Macy had no luck getting adopted. The behaviorists determined that for "temperment" reasons Macy could not be adopted into a family with children under thirteen and a half years of age. For the first few months at HSSC when stressed or agitated Macy would "redirect" i.e. threaten to bite the nearest object. (She redirected on my hand once, doing no damage, when we were first getting to know each other.) Then additionally Macy was "selectively dog aggressive" There were dogs that Macy simply could not abide. This eliminated her adoptability by folks who already had a dog. Finally Macy intensely disliked the entire feline species eliminating another pool of potential adopters. But Macy was a good dog and her behavior improved over time. Her rating was dropped from "blue" to "red" meaning more volunteeers were able to exercise and fuss over her. This meant more socialization and more treats. Macy and I became friends. She greatly enjoyed hunting the occasional gecko and I occasionally helped. Two weeks before her death she won a "loose leash" competition over eight other dogs. Macy walked next to my left leg using only its movement for guidance as to which direction she should walk or turn. Macy was probably hurting with every step. She wanted to be and was a very good dog. I shall not forget Macy my friend. Her picture - a brown and white face with the pinkish nose automatically and regularly appears on my computer screen.
*cruciate ligament tear - results in pain and if untreated an unstable leg.
** sometimes referred to as a "trick knee".

Catahoula John

Catahoula John was readopted by a previous owner on January 15th, 2011.