A quick flash of movement in my peripheral vision bought an involuntary swivel of the head and instant frustration.  My quarry briefly appeared then disappeared with lightning speed into a patchwork of nooks and crannies where it could very well turn the tables on the man carrying the rifle.  In there, the hunter might actually become the hunted.

For seven days I had stalked the elusive animal.  Occasional brief sightings confirmed that the huge male still in the area, very much menacing the health and safety of my family.  This situation was untenable; the only solution was to take the animal using whatever means I could muster.  It was my solemn duty to become the executioner of this beast.

After a week of frustration I grew increasing perturbed at my inability to conclude this rein of terror even though no small amount of resources had been thrown into the fray.  A frightening array of deadly poisons and traps had brought no results.  I sought the counsel of other experienced bush hands but gained no further insight to my ticklish problem.  The usual solutions weren’t working and I began to doubt my own abilities.

The experiences of running a trapline in my youth proved useless against this cunning prey.  Other, less inexperienced animals had easily fallen to my skills in the past but this was an entirely new game.  I began to feel as did British engineer Colonel John Henry Patterson who hunted (and was hunted by) the man-eating lions of Tsavo in the early 1900’s while the felines were regularly snacking on imported laborers attempting to build the Kenya railroad.

Colonel Patterson spent the better part of two years hunting the pride of lions that had developed a sweet tooth for coolies, threatening to stall the entire British Empire in its attempts to subdue the interior of the African continent.  Colonel Patterson’s book, The Man-Eaters of Tsavo, was a best-seller during the early part of this century on both sides of the Atlantic and is still a good read for lovers of classic stilted “…I felt the hot breath of the bloody beast upon my neck”-Victorian writing.

The same doubts and troubles that plagued Bwana Patterson plagued Yours Humble Servant.  Should I use the light rifle or the .460 Rigby?  Can we safely organize a drive using the local natives?  Is there any use in sitting up all night, hoping for one good shot in the inky depths of midnight?  Will a BB from my air rifle damage the woodwork if I miss?

Admittedly this last question only applied to my situation since I was hunting indoors and my quarry was only the size of an anemic kiwi fruit.  You see, the villainous creature disrupting our household was a standard issue field mouse, size Extra Large.

Every fall when the crops around our tiny estate on the prairie fall to the harvester blade, hoards of mice descend for a winter vacation inside our house.  Aside from their indiscreet hygiene habits and love for gnawing, the cute critters are especially not welcome because my spouse is deathly terrified of mice due to a childhood incident.  Thus, faced with a choice between rodents and wife, the decision is easy when you consider that the mice won’t wash my dirty socks.

In a typical year the tiny squatters will eventually succumb to poison and traps laced with peanut butter but Supermouse was oblivious to the usual program.  He was also a cheeky fellow, randomly sprinting down the hallway during the evening and occasionally popping out of the linen closet.

Out of desperation, I actually resorted to laying in wait during the wee hours with my air rifle.  The logic was: 1. the mouse had to go 2.  active measures were necessary and 3.  I love hunting too much to just quite after deer season ends.  I’m sure both of the regular readers completely understand that last bit of reasoning.

Hunting in the house proved to be an exhilarating experience, provided you have the imagination of a small boy who reads far too many African hunting novels during the winter and aspires to be Ernest Hemmingway when he grows up.  I don’t know of anyone who meets those qualifications but I did have barrels of fun during my time in the “field.”

At least, aside from the moment when my wife’s eyes rolled completely out of her skull after I requested she address me as “Bwana.”

photo: U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service

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