At The Farm Gate

September 2008



Rodent battles a sign fall has arrived



By Joanie Stiers



For the better part of a week, I apologized to company and explained why I displayed the ice cream scoop, my favorite neon green silicone spatula and every other kitchen utensil across the surface of my hutch. A laundry basket full of unfolded, but clean, dish rags and flour sack towels sat nearby.

“I’m at war with a mouse.”

Mice looking for a warm retreat are as sure a sign of fall as way-too-early Christmas merchandise at the department store. I can expect a few rodents each fall because the weather turns cool and Grandpa harvests the cornfield near our home, which sends the field mice scurrying toward our home and detached garage.

I typically catch these corn-fed mice in our old farmhouse basement before they find more interesting terrain and food selection in my kitchen on the main level. Ideally, I would remember to check the traps in our uninhabitable basement every few days to make sure they remained ready for a mouse attack. Unset traps tempt the mice to seek other spaces in our dwelling.

Those that bypass the basement traps find the kitchen. I find the trail before the mouse: droppings in the top drawers of my base cupboards, including those designated for towels, utensils, silverware and aluminum foil. The intruders occasionally frequent the cookie sheets and mitts in the drawer beneath the oven and find a feast at the bread basket in between.

I enter battle mode. I empty each drawer, wash everything and wait to catch the enemy before resuming to a normal life. I feel like I am attempting to function without electricity during a summer storm. Like flipping the light switch, I open the utensil drawer to grab my neon green spatula, only to recall it’s unavailable. I close the drawer and walk to my temporary storage location on the hutch.

The capture typically is easy. I set two traps with peanut butter bribery and have success within hours of nightfall. But the most recent mouse battled for four days, during which it enjoyed a sack of potato rolls and leftover wiener roast hot dog buns. It bypassed four traps and managed to eat a hunk of sharp cheddar from one without tripping the trap. In the meantime, it left more tiny black remains that I wish were the dead picnic bugs they resemble from a distance.

But by day four, it was back in the cornfield to become organic matter to support Grandpa’s crop -- and the next generation of mice.