Unwanted Houseguests

I’m not a country girl by birth, though I am an animal lover. By legacy, my family jungle was, beyond a few exceptions, concrete. The wildlife I was born into in Brooklyn was urban — rats and light scattered cockroaches, pigeons and bushy tailed squirrels everyone’s mother yelled at you to leave alone. When things got out of hand, a guy showed up with a blue uniform and a spray tank. He stomped around, releasing chemicals they made smell bad so you didn’t feel cheated when it didn’t work.

There were urban legends about wildlife living in the pipes—snakes coming from toilet bowls was a recurring nightmare of my youth that thankfully remained a dream. However, there was a rash of giant water bugs my cat brought to us in his mouth, only to watch it scurry away when it got the chance. But, that’s life in the big city.

In the suburbs of my adulthood, I added raccoons and wandering skunks to my list of critters to avoid. I stopped believing in zoos and leaned toward the wildlife refuge instead. One was cobbled together and built on top of a landfill, walking distance from my pristine, newly built, gated community of late century “mcmansions.” 

There, the animals were unable to make it on their own—injured in the wild or abandoned on Long Island’s gold coast “postseason” as leftover livestock. It was a ragtag crew of misfits that included a couple of bear, a flock of wild looking chickens, and their own groundhog called, Holtsville Hal.

This is also where my bird obsession began. An overpopulated and untethered gaggle of geese lived on top of a series of huge puddles formed into societies along the reclaimed walking path. The old timers hovered in groups. Mothers honked warnings at passersby and goslings alike. I loved taking my boys “exploring” where erosion and time uncovered ancient things like newspapers and glass bottles.

And when an errant frog took up residence in my window well, I built it a sort of ladder of flower pots and boxes to make its way out. I quickly cleared them, assuming he’d learn his lesson, but found him back down there again the next day. I surrendered and let him keep the ladder. That’s life in the suburbs.

That was before I moved.

Everywhere in my far more rural, Massachusetts forest, I’ve had to familiarize myself with new fauna. The squirrels and I remain locked into a pitched battle over whether they get to chomp my birdseed. I follow my neighborhood watch, where they talk about animals I’m not sure are real, like a fisher cats, or a common muskrat. 

I would like to take a moment here to point out the privilege it is to live in a place where bear sightings are more plentiful than the intruder ones. By far.

Often, I take the trip back to Long Island from Massachusetts. With the ferry, the journey takes about 3 hours and includes a lovely boat ride. Without the ferry, I could be looking at 6 hours, entirely in traffic.

On this one morning, I needed to feed the dogs and open their doggy door before I left. My husband was on his weekly trip to Manhattan and I wouldn’t be back until much later that night. None of which was beyond my routine.

Which is to say, when the time crunch was on me, I was headed for the doggy door and in a rush. Usually, and from my trash chute dirty childhood, I make sure the rodents scatter before I open any door.

I let out a staccato, but loud bang. “Go avay!” I call out in an odd and old school Yiddish accent, as if the ancestors can keep me safe, “Go avay!”

I wasn’t thinking about any of that in my rush. I was thinking about my poor tomatoes and how I’d better water them in this heat. I opened the door and a pack of something sped by in that magic morning light. 

One of the herd decided to veer off. In some ancient expression of scattering, he ran right into my house!

I tried to slow my breathing. By slow my breathing, I mean stop screaming at my poor, post trauma, rescue dogs.

I know this next part because my husband likes to play this clip from his backyard cam, on a loop. “Do something!” I screeched at them. “Get rid of it!”

The poor dogs stared at me. I would have, too. They totally missed the thing heading for the steps! I ran after it, one dog barking behind me, at me, the other down on all fours reliving some trauma I supposedly rescued it from. I’d be feeding her under the bed for weeks.

Instead of the steps, the intruder veered off into the bathroom. 

I slammed the door. Gotcha! I went back outside to slow my heartbeat. I looked at my watch. Time was short, but I could make it.

I steeled myself. Since living here, I’ve done all sorts of things that have challenged my beliefs about myself and the world around me. I’ve looked at different roles I’ve taken on and challenged myself to do both more as well as less, just to see what will happen. I mow the lawn, for heaven’s sake.

But this was a bridge too far. I would deal with it when I got back. I wouldn’t miss the boat. 

I closed the door and started the car, a lump in my chest. Would it be too much to leave it a snack? Maybe some water? Were its buddies worried about it or is one chipmunk like the other? This is nature, I told myself but my inner BuJew (Bhuddist/Jew) wasn’t buying it.

At my old house I had a problem with ants. My husband would chase them to their source and block out the whole colony. It bothered me. They weren’t trying to upset us.

Our friend, a big, burly guy who talks like a super educated cartoon character, knitted his brow at me over dinner one night.

“Are you shitting me? You show up at his house and he can take you apart, he’d be flossing with your toenails before you know it.” He shrugged and bit into his steak. “That’s how it goes.”

I have come to see on the most brutal and fundamental level, there is definite truth to this. I tried not to think about it as I headed out. 

“I’ll text the neighbors,” my husband said when I told him. “They’ll know what to do.”

It is embarrassing how often this sentence gets uttered in my house. Another privilege I am grateful for everyday. Not just that they know what to do, but that they haven’t cut us off. Yet.

“I’m going in,” she texted while I was 20 minutes from home at the end of a long day. “I’m bringing my husband and the dog.” There was a moment of silence between us. “On a leash,” she texted.

A word about her rescued beach dog. On tiny legs with a giant head, he has a penchant for snacking on whatever runs by. This is my dogs’ best friend. Sunny wouldn’t still be hiding under the bed when I got back because Mommy, “had a bad moment.” Sunny would be cleansing his pallet on a bunch of grass, getting ready to belch up some bones.

I started sweating beyond the climate control, forcing myself to stay optimistic. The next update came soon after. “It was a red squirrel. They are exceptionally destructive. You’re really lucky. It died in the toilet.”

My heart sank. It died in the toilet.

Her tone cheerful, she said, “There was only a little sawdust in the corner. It could have been much worse.”

My first kill, even if it was entirely inadvertent.

I felt guilty and sad, and frankly so relieved I wouldn’t have to deal with it, I wanted to scream all over, but a tightness caught in my chest. 

When I saw my savior later that night, she gave me another shrug and a gorgeous bouquet from her garden. “That’s life on the farm,” she said.

All this is to point out, be too alarmed if you hear an early morning warning bang come out in an ancient accent. It really is better for everyone.