The robed and four-legged conspirators
July 29, 2019 at 12:37 p.m.
For the past two weeks, I have been hostess to a new, non-paying tenant on my postage-stamp-sized Central Jersey estate: a groundhog.
Battling this particular creature of God, a resident of the small space underneath my outdoor shed, has become my own version of Wile E. Coyote and Acme Company Products (a.k.a Chris) vs. the Road Runner Rodent. My placement of bricks, slate pieces, and wooden blocks have proven successful short-term, but after a day or so I espy the contemptuous creature lazily munching my hosta plants and chuckling at my ineptitude. The critter is now so comfortable in his new domicile that he has installed an extension cord for electrical service and pirated both satellite television and broadband internet access from my house. Though I have not totally ceded property rights, this missive is not about the groundhog, but rather its much smaller cousin: the field mouse.
On a regular basis, as I slouch in the family room recliner dozing off during nighttime summer television reruns, I have heard what I assumed to be the tell-tale noises of living with a constantly-grazing 24-year-old son: the crackle of cellophane from the cereal and cracker boxes, the soft rattle of the glass cookie jar lid, a soft bump on a cabinet door. Despite the rapid consumption of a multi-giga-calorie dinner, Jeremy often visits the kitchen to enjoy an additional repast, and I have learned to disregard the assaults on my grocery inventory. These past few mornings, however, I have good-naturedly grumbled about the line of caraway seeds he has carelessly spilled on the counter and in the cabinets. Yesterday, my pre-coffee, slightly addled brain finally computed: these CAN’T be caraway seeds, for there is no rye bread in the house. I then picked up the loaf of Martin’s Potato Bread from the counter…and saw a small hole nibbled on one end and a few slices with suspicious gouges in them. Yup, you saw this coming a few dozen pixels ago, didn’t you: we are not alone (insert theme song to the movie “Ben”, sung by the late Michael Jackson, here)...
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For the past two weeks, I have been hostess to a new, non-paying tenant on my postage-stamp-sized Central Jersey estate: a groundhog.
Battling this particular creature of God, a resident of the small space underneath my outdoor shed, has become my own version of Wile E. Coyote and Acme Company Products (a.k.a Chris) vs. the Road Runner Rodent. My placement of bricks, slate pieces, and wooden blocks have proven successful short-term, but after a day or so I espy the contemptuous creature lazily munching my hosta plants and chuckling at my ineptitude. The critter is now so comfortable in his new domicile that he has installed an extension cord for electrical service and pirated both satellite television and broadband internet access from my house. Though I have not totally ceded property rights, this missive is not about the groundhog, but rather its much smaller cousin: the field mouse.
On a regular basis, as I slouch in the family room recliner dozing off during nighttime summer television reruns, I have heard what I assumed to be the tell-tale noises of living with a constantly-grazing 24-year-old son: the crackle of cellophane from the cereal and cracker boxes, the soft rattle of the glass cookie jar lid, a soft bump on a cabinet door. Despite the rapid consumption of a multi-giga-calorie dinner, Jeremy often visits the kitchen to enjoy an additional repast, and I have learned to disregard the assaults on my grocery inventory. These past few mornings, however, I have good-naturedly grumbled about the line of caraway seeds he has carelessly spilled on the counter and in the cabinets. Yesterday, my pre-coffee, slightly addled brain finally computed: these CAN’T be caraway seeds, for there is no rye bread in the house. I then picked up the loaf of Martin’s Potato Bread from the counter…and saw a small hole nibbled on one end and a few slices with suspicious gouges in them. Yup, you saw this coming a few dozen pixels ago, didn’t you: we are not alone (insert theme song to the movie “Ben”, sung by the late Michael Jackson, here)...
To read the full column, click here[[In-content Ad]]