Wild, wild, life

Apparently, my schedule and wardrobe are so similar to Cinderella's that small woodland creatures cannot stay away from me. Which I wouldn't mind if they were helping me unload the dishwasher with their wings or pushing Matchbox cars into a bin with their rodent paws.  Instead, they are invading my home and/or coming here to die.

First, it was the baby rabbit who met his untimely demise when Reilly decided to go all Lenny from Of Mice and Men on his ass.  My children received a hard lesson in the food chain and spinal chord injuries.  They also learned that, despite the fact that he sleeps eighteen hours a day and lets their friends ride him like a toy, they actually have an ANIMAL living in their house.  They kept one eye on the dog for a month.

This fall, I was embarrassed to write about our rodent infestation.  The specter of my uber-clean Irish mother screamed in my head, "Only the shanty Irish have mice!"  It started out with my finding an adorable deer mouse in the pre-dawn hours every once in a while in the bin of dog food.  "Oh how cute", I'd think, and carry the can outside to let the poor guy scamper back to the woods behind our house, thinking he somehow had mistakenly found his lonely way into our abode.  Until I went into the girls' room one day and picked up some toys and found two mice looking up at me like, "WTF, lady?"  I screamed so loud they were shocked into stillness long enough for me to leave the room and grab a waste basket to cover them.

"WE ARE DIRTY PIGS!!!", I screamed at H over the phone, while I scrubbed my body with bleach. I immediately rejected his idea of setting traps, envisioning Little Man running, screaming, into a room with his little fingers caught in one like an episode of Tom and Jerry.  Thank God I called in the professionals, because it turned out we were as mice-infested as a tenement in Harlem.  Except our mice were after the Brie, not the government cheese.  Let me tell you, "They are in the walls" is NEVER a phrase you want to hear unless you are my husband and you are talking about TV speakers.

My self-flagellation over my obviously slovenly house-keeping skills was prevented when the exterminator told me with our proximity to the woods, the previous owner must have had a pest contract and our two year contract-free stay had allowed them to get back in and set up the Rodent Marritt in our walls.  So I did not have the cleaning skills of a crackhead after all.

Almost a year later, we are rodent free.  Indoors.  Ever see those spiky things people use to keep birds off their roofs and porches?  We have them, but our neighborhood birds are so tough the used them as supports to build the Trump Tower of nests.  H and I allowed to it remain, wondering what real harm it could do.  We think it's funny and it entertains the kids while we have drinks on the porch.  We are still city dwellers at heart, I guess, because "real" homeowners express their horror at our allowing wildlife within ten feet of the house.

Well the birds must have tweeted about the hospitality at Chez Mean Mommy, because last night, what did H find nestled on the side of the house?  Three freaking baby raccoons.  They were awake during the day, so my mind immediately began screaming, "RABIES!  LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE! KEEP THE CHILDREN INSIDE!!!!!"

I sent H out wearing his hockey gear to see where the mother was.  She was nowhere to be found, but the babies did not seem rabid.  So I spent my early morning hours on the phone with animal control and slicing apples up to leave by the babies at my children's request.  Oh yes, H had to tell the kids.  Does he not know the Napalm a needy, baby animal is to the emotional state of a nine year-old girl?  He obviously never read Charlotte's Web.  Thankfully, the mother came back, or the babies, fortified with organic Fuji apples found enough strength to leave saving me the $150 Animal Control wanted to humanely take them away.

So let me put it out there to the fauna in my area. From here on out there will be no more lax wildlife policy in New Town.  I think it is H's jurisdiction, as I have enough wildlife to manage, but it is doubtful he himself will be crawling under the porch to instal the mesh the exterminator recommended. I often like to put a toothpick in my mouth, squint my eye and quote Quint from Jaws, "You got city hands Mr. Hoopa'.  Countin' money all your life."

But however it happens, no more living in my walls, no more birthing babies under my porch, no more bird hostel.  I am not Sleeping Beauty, Snow White or Cinderella.  Or you will find out the hard way I am way more like the wicked stepmothers.

This is NOT me.