Morning wildlife

This morning there was a yellow jacket in the house. Once in a while they get in and disrupt the entire fabric of life. Everything grinds to a halt until the bug is gone. This little yellow jacket was on a leisurely vacation, it seemed. It idly explored the kitchen and dining room, wasn’t in a hurry and wasn’t particularly interested in tormenting me. I appreciated that.

I looked around for something to squash it with, but I had nothing at hand. And I wasn’t about to take my eyes off it long enough to go hunting for a shoe or other bug squashing object. The only things I had close to hand were plastic grocery bags. I grabbed three and put one inside another, and both inside another—and stuck my hand inside so I could grab (or squash) the bug without it being able to sting me. I chased that little bug all over the place and finally encouraged it to head for the door. It clung to the screen for a moment while I slid the door open and then I just swept the yellow jacket outside. Mission accomplished with no murder committed.

I felt rather pleased with myself considering those things usually strike such terror in my heart that I am apt to hyperventilate and scream when one comes within a foot of me.

Shortly after that exciting start to the day, Abbie cat cornered a mouse under a small cabinet in the dining room. She’s not a natural born mouser and doesn’t have much instinct when it comes to mice. They are interesting things to watch and she’ll chase them around if it’s convenient, but catching them is too icky for her. Occasionally she simply ignores them while I wonder what kind of cat she is that mice don’t snap her kitty instincts into high gear.

It’s not that we have mice in the house very often, but occasionally one makes its presence known. I got the flashlight out and peered under the cabinet. Two little wide glowing eyes peered back at me. A little field mouse, I think. Small and sleek, a tannish gray with a pristine white tummy and nice long whiskers. I like mice and I’d call this one a real cutie. But, you know, just not suitable for a house pet.

I got the yardstick out and guided the terrified little mouse out. He didn’t run. He was was absolutely frozen in terror. I can imagine. A cat and a monstrous other creature staring at him must have about done him in, realizing he was completely cornered. I had a glass jar ready and the instant I’d swept him out from under the cabinet I plunked the glass jar down over the top of him. Captured. Abbie sat and stared at it for a moment and then walked away. What a cat.

I guided a piece of cardboard under the jar, until the mouse was secure, and took him outside, too. Let him go and as soon as he felt his feet touch earth, he took off like a bullet.

Not long after that a mockingbird landed on the deck railing, seriously complaining about something. It looked in the screen door and bounced back and forth on the deck railing, loudly chk chk chking it’s head off. I went over to the door to see what all the fuss was about, but couldn’t see any unusual activity anywhere. It continued bouncing and shrieking. I have no idea what its problem was. I saw nothing alarming. And it’s not as if the bird was demanding to be fed—the mockingbirds don’t eat at the feeders. But something had upset its world and it came to broadcast its alarm in a big way. It stayed for a good long time, just hollering and bouncing back and forth. And looking in the screen door all the while it did.

I know that I have a tendency to anthropomorphize birds and animals. But sometimes I really am left wondering if they aren’t capable of more thought than science allows. This bird was communicating something and very obviously wanted me to know about it. Perhaps it wanted me to assist in some way, but I was useless under the circumstances and it eventually gave up and flew elsewhere to holler. From its behavior, I’d surmise that something tragic had happened or was about to happen. I still have no idea.