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Bears and Mice and Moth Balls, Oh My!


 

“I feel like a pioneer woman,” I remarked to Dina, my oldest and dearest friend.  It was Wednesday, the day set aside for our weekly Zoom meeting.  The much-anticipated call goes a long way to shorten the long distance between us.  We may live in other states, but it always feels like a few short blocks when we speak.


“Pioneer Woman? Are you writing a cookbook?” asked my friend, referencing the popular television chef.  “Or did the Food Network finally call you to host a show?  I always thought you entertained better than anyone on our block. Remember the epic dinner parties we used to throw. Your Chateaubriand is simply to die for.” 


“Thanks, but no cookbook,” I laughed. “And I don’t think I’ll be seated in the make-up chair next to Ina anytime soon. No, my “pioneer” issues are more creature oriented. 

“Oh no! Were you attacked by bears?  Or do you have raccoons? They still get into the trash here if the lid isn’t locked down. You know I worry about you out in the wild!”

We don’t exactly live in the “wild.” It’s northern Nevada, we have electricity and indoor plumbing.  And a fair share of critters.  There are frequent alerts about bear sightings in the neighborhood and this morning there were two 10-point bucks breakfasting from the bushes in our backyard. There’s even wildlife out on the golf course. Last week, the guys teed off under the watchful eyes of a coyote they promptly nicknamed “Wile E.”

“What kind of creatures?” Dina asked.  And thus begins this tale. 


It began a few weeks ago. Our pussy cat, Pippa had parked herself on the floor in front of the kitchen sink and just wouldn’t budge. She was in search of a mouse. She remained there, on alert, for several days, occasionally leaving her vigil to scurry up and down the hallway, skidding on the hardwood floor. Still spry at 19, she typically naps all day, reigning as the “dowager duchess” from her throne on the bedroom loveseat. But she has always taken her job as a mouser quite seriously and old age doesn’t hold her back.


Hubby immediately went about setting humane mousetraps to catch the creatures. After a week, and an entire jar of peanut butter, over half dozen furry mice had been ensnared and released a safe distance from our home. As we continued to trap more, with no end in sight, it became clear we had been invaded; it was time to bring in the “big guns.” 


Promptly at 9 AM the next morning, Mike from the “Handy-Dandy, Right at Your Service” pest control company arrived.  He set bait and snares and promised our visitors would be gone faster than you could say “mousetrap."


And that’s when the real circus began. Pippa, who seemed insulted that she had been fired for non-performance of duties as mouse sheriff, started running all over the house again, this time chasing little flying things. She had come out of retirement long enough to let us know that we had yet another set of intruders. This time it was moths, and they were everywhere. In the cupboards, in the pantry, in the linens. It was time for Mike to return, and pronto.

 

More traps, more bait, more spraying and yet another promise of a creature-less house.  But, as the TV ad promotes - “Wait, there’s more!” Not two days later, I noticed a line of little, dark things moving over the kitchen counters. Now we had ants! 


Seriously, it was like playing a game of whack-a-mole! As soon as we handled one thing, another popped up.  By this time, Dina was doubled over with laughter, particularly at my descriptions of Pippa jumping in the air trying to catch moths. “You’ve certainly had your share of little pests out there in the wild.  Are they all gone now?”


“Yes, I’m happy to say that after two months of “creature visitation” and four house calls from Mike, everything is pretty much back to normal. Potential entry holes have been patched and “no critters allowed” signs have been posted.”


All except for the moths.  They seemed determined to make our home their home.  After what seemed like endless cleaning out cupboards and re-washing dishes, I was at my wits end.  What to do, what to do?  Then like a bolt, it dawned on me. Why not handle this like my grandmother did?  


The solution turned out to be so simple and effective. Moth balls. Good, old-fashioned moth balls. It may not be a glamorous remedy and moth balls are, admittedly, strong smelling. But they work like a charm. Sometimes old-fashioned methods really are the best. 


The moral of this story is - when all else fails, get inventive and do what your grandmother did.  It’s really what any pioneer woman would do.

 

 

© 2024  Annie Sokoloff

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