Post #43: Moles in the yard

PD has established his dominance over Frank, and Frank pretty much accepts his place in the pecking order.  While it is sad for us to watch Frank’s insecurity around PD there have not been anymore major fights between the two.

Frank enjoys our backyard and he usually takes advantage of the ramps we have around the house. But, he still manages to surprise us by flying on to chairs, tables, and even the bed.

Frank has filled out nicely. He is no longer the skeleton he once was. However, he can no longer fly as high or as far as he once did. Still, he does pretty good.

Frank has learned to ask for attention when he wants it. And, he can be really persistent. He will work his muzzle under our hands and then onto top of his head. It doesn’t take long to figure out that Frank has a pair of ears that need to be massaged or chest that needs to be rubbed.

Frank also does his best to earn his keep as a house dog.

When we first moved to our new house, we had mole trails all over our back and front yards. Frank decided that it is his job to hunt them down. I’m pretty good at catching gophers. I know what to look for in a gopher hole, and how to set a gopher trap.  But I’m not so good at catching moles.

On the other hand, Frank has never caught one, either. But that hasn’t stopped him from trying. He is probably one of the most enthusiastic mole hunters that you have ever seen. He spends hours in the backyard digging trenches. I’ll look out the window and see his butt in the air and dirt flying. He’ll dig for a bit, and then he will grab a grass runner and pull and shake and pull some more until that grass runner has come loose. Then Frank will stick his nose in as deep into the earth as he can. Once he has the scent firmly in his nostrils, he will pull his head out, snort, and start digging the trench again. Frank has been at this for about two years.

He’s never caught a thing.

We have a few cats in our neighborhood. Frank and PD will chase them out of the backyard when they see them back there. I don’t mind the cats. I won’t feed them, but I don’t chase them away.  And I try to be careful about not running over any cats when I pull out of the driveway. Unlike the experience we had on 11^th St., we’ve not yet killed any cats in our new home.

There is a large yellow cat that likes to sleep under my truck. I think he’s watched Frank’s futile attempts at catching moles. Sometimes I see him lying in the brush behind our property staring into our yard.  I’m not sure, but he may be smiling while he is watching Frank dig trenches.

Watching Frank’s enthusiastic attempts to catch the moles motivated me into action. I’d done a bit of research and I couldn’t really see that they’re doing a lot of harm. They weren’t killing the grass. In fact, they were probably eating the cinch bugs dining on the roots of my grass.

Sometimes it is a little disconcerting to walk across the lawn and then suddenly sink lower than expected when I step on one of their trails. But that doesn’t happen too often. I’m actually more annoyed by stepping into one of the trenches Frank has dug than I am by stepping onto one of the mole trails.

I have read stories about moles damaging foundations and driveways, but I’m not sure that those stories are true. Most of these stories came from internet sites trying to sell the latest and greatest gadgets for killing moles.  Still, I felt I should do my part to help Frank’s “stamp out the moles” campaign. So I went online, and did some research.

I bought some Super-duper, Extra Large, Guaranteed to Work Mole Traps. I carefully read the instructions, bought some flags to help me carry out those instructions, and set out the next day to mark all of the trails that were crisscrossing our backyard. I’d walk a bit, and when my foot sank down I took a close look at the ground, and if it looked like there might be a mole trail under that grass I’d stick a little red flag into the ground next to where I just stepped.

The idea is that moles do not like to have their active trails shut down. If you step on one and crush the tunnel the mole will come back over overnight and reopen the tunnel.  If you look at the trail the next day, and the trail has been repaired, then you know that you have found an active trail, and that is where you want to set your trap.

By the time I finished, I had about 20 places marked off in our backyard. The next day I went out and selected four spots that I thought might have been reopened. Then I set my traps.

After about a week of hunting down trails and setting traps, I finally got one mole.  I noticed the yellow cat watching me.  Yes, that was definitely a smile.

I was setting traps in the back yard, in the front yard, and in the flower bed.  Only one mole.

One morning, sometime after I’d caught my one and only mole, but before I’d given up, I opened the garage door to go get our newspaper.  There it was.  Just outside the garage door.  The gift from our yellow cat:  a dead mole.

There haven’t been any others. The cat didn’t need to bring us any others.  He just wanted me to know that he could do it.  And he could do it anytime he wanted.

I haven’t had the heart to tell Frank.

And I’ve not bothered to set out any more mole traps.

Post #34: Pack Animals

Seeing the dogs at the Buda races reminded me of the beauty of the Pack.

It is always amazing to watch two dogs hunting together.  Several times Henry would start the chase against a possum that dared cross his back yard.  PD would join him as soon as he heard Henry’s first bark.  The two dogs would act as a team to herd the possum into an impossible predicament, and then begin the attack.

Henry and PD would take turns lunging at the possum, wearing it down until one or the other could make a debilitating bite.

When I heard the hunting sound of my two dachshunds I would grab my gloves and whatever tool I thought might be useful to either save or dispatch whatever unfortunate critter they were hunting down.

Usually, I arrived too late, or was too slow to save the possums.  Then my job was to keep the dogs from bringing their prize into the house or eating it.  I learned from these experiences that fleas are extremely fickle.  As soon as the blood stops flowing, they abandon ship and look for a new source of food.  This is usually the dogs that killed the critter, or the man that stooped over to pick it up.  Everybody got a bath after a critter – kill.

One evening, I arrived home from work to the sounds of barking dachshunds.  It was after sundown and the backyard was dark.  Kathy stood near the back fence with a flashlight in her hands.  A couple of lawn timbers had been stacked up near the fence.  PD and Henry were taking turns lunging and barking at a small opening between the fence and the timbers.  “There’s a baby possum wedged in there!” Kathy told me.  “You’ve got to get the dogs in the house so we can free it!”

“Let me see, first.” I said while taking the flashlight from Kathy.

As I shone the light on the timbers, PD darted in and then ran back to the house.  I had just commanded the dogs to “get back, wait!” and was really proud that they were obeying me.  Usually, the dogs just ignore me when I tell them to do something and food or prey are nearby.

“He’s got it!  PD’s got the possum!” Kathy was shouting.  I told her, “No, I don’t think so.  I think I see it right there.  Let me move this log.”

“No! He’s gone in the house!”

“I think I see it right there.”

I moved the lawn timber and found … nothing.

“Hmmm   … well, maybe he did get it I said, doubtfully.”  Why do we always doubt our spouses?

This was unusual.  PD usually stuck to roaches, when it came to hunting.  Possums were Henry’s territory.  While PD would help Henry with the hunt, it was always Henry that made the kill.  If the creature looked dangerous at all, it was always Henry who was on the front line of barking the danger away and showing his teeth.

PD was the second line of defense.  He would hang back, close to the house, or close to me, and do his ferocious barking from a safe distance.

So, I really didn’t believe that PD had grabbed the possum.

I walked up the steps, through the back door, and into the kitchen.

PD was standing in the middle of a gruesome murder scene.  As PD savagely shook the possum back and forth, Henry sat calmly in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room.  He gave PD an approving look.  It seemed as if Henry had become the proud instructor watching his star pupil perform the flawless slaughter of his first victim.

PD’s head shook violently back and forth.  The possum was flung from side to side.  Droplets of possum blood sprayed across the room.  Blood was splattered on the floor, the cabinets, the stove and the counter tops.

I have no doubt that if PD had been a taller dog there would have been blood dripping from the ceiling.

I ordered PD to “Drop it!”  Thankfully, he did.  I picked up the possum and carried it outside as Kathy was coming up the steps.

“You don’t want to go in there.” I advised. 

Of course, she had to go in.  She had to see the mayhem and the gore left behind.

Henry had done his job well.  He had trained PD, and PD was now a full-fledged hunter.

 

Post #26: Henry the Hunter

Henry was a really athletic dog.  He was quick, intelligent, and agile.  Henry surprised us one day when we were in Arizona visiting my Dad. 

 

Both PD and Henry were in my Dad’s back yard.  The humans were out in the back yard, too.  Dad’s house was just two blocks from undeveloped brushy Arizona desert.  His back yard had a nice view of Mount Graham rising up and dominating the skyline.  We stood under the shade of his trees, visiting about trivial things and enjoying the view. 

There was plenty of wildlife in the area, including birds.  One little brown bird came swooping down into the back yard.  He was trying to score something for food or perhaps some twig for its nest.

A black streak shot from the left.  My stepmother exclaimed “Oh my!”

I looked, and Henry had snatched the bird out of the air in mid-flight.  I was shocked!  I had never seen Henry move that fast, and I certainly would never have expected a dog with such short legs capable of catching a bird.

And then, I realized that Henry intended to eat his catch.  Raw bird meat, bones, and feathers were not on Henry’s meal plan.  At least not the meal plan Wife and I had mapped out for him. 

I tried to act calm as I walked over to Henry.  “Drop it!” I commanded.

I was both surprised and relieved when Henry set the bird down.  I picked up the bird and inspected it.  It was badly injured, but not yet dead.  I carried the bird over to the trash bin, and quickly dispatched it, putting the poor bird out of its misery with a quick twist of its neck.

This was only the first of many critters that Henry would successfully catch, or at least attack.

Henry’s next catch happened several months later, in our own back yard.  As I said, Henry was not only quick, he was bright.  He learned from his previous experience.

Wife had been looking out the window into our back yard.  She spotted Henry just as he snatched a large black grackle out of the air.  It seems he was perfecting his technique.  Grackles are large black birds, and were frequent visitors to our back yard.  I had seen both of our dogs take off after the big birds, scattering them up into the trees, but this was the first time one of the dogs actually caught one of the birds.

Wife began shouting at Henry and calling my name, telling me to hurry.  We went outside, and there was Henry, with his prize on the ground.

I was beginning to think the capture of the bird in my Dad’s back yard wasn’t a fluke, after all.  This dog could move!

When Henry looked up and saw us, he scooped up the bird in his mouth.  I think he remembered from the last time that he caught a bird that I was likely to take his prize away from him.  As I approached, I told Henry “Drop it!”

And he did.

But, then, recalling the last time I told him to drop a bird that he had caught, he picked up the bird again.  Henry did not want to lose his hard earned reward.  So he snatched up that big black bird.  The bird went in head first, with its feet dangling out on either side of his mouth.

Henry began to run around the yard, the bird’s legs flopping around.  Wife said he looked like he had a “Fu-Manchu” moustache.

I retrieved the sternest voice I could muster, considering the comical site in front of me … black dachshund running around the yard with the legs of a black bird dangling out from either side of his mouth … and ordered Henry to drop the bird.

He stopped.  He dropped the bird.  And he watched me.  I walked over to Henry to retrieve the dead bird.  Henry let me get within three steps, and then he reached down and picked up the bird again.

Before I could order Henry to “Drop It” again, he took a big gulp, and swallowed the bird whole!

I still have no idea how he managed to get that whole bird down his throat in one swallow.  Nor do I know what happened to the remains of that Grackle.  I watched the back yard for days, looking for droppings with feathers, bones, or maybe even a whole bird carcass.  Nothing.  As far as I can tell, Henry managed to digest that bird like he did his dog food.  There was nothing in the yard to indicate that any part of the bird was vomited back up, or did not get fully digested.

I didn’t even find the feet.

 

Post #23: PD the Hunter

Of all the hounds we have owned (three dachshunds and a beagle), I think PD has the best nose.

Henry was our hunter of possums, raccoons, squirrels, skunks, and birds.  PD was a just a little too small to chase the bigger animals, and he didn’t really have his heart into chasing squirrels and birds.

PD saved his nose and his hunting skills for nasty critters that tried to invade our house.  He could smell and track these critters even when we had no idea they were in the house with us.

We were living in a pier and beam house that was built sometime around 1919 or 1920.  Certain times of the year brought an invasion of large tree roaches.  They would come into our house in search of water, food, or a change in temperature.

 

 

In the mornings I would sit in the study and read the newspaper with PD and Henry on my lap or next to me.  Our routine in the evenings was for me to sit on the recliner, again, with PD and Henry close by, on my lap or next to me. 

 

One evening PD arose from the blanket with his nose in the air.  I watched as he sniffed the air in different directions.  Then, he zeroed in on the scent.  PD launched himself out of my lap and ran into the other room to the china hutch, his nose zig-zagging across the floor, tail held high, and his bark reverberating off the walls.

I was convinced some evil creature had come into the house.  What was it?  A snake?  A possum? A rat or mouse?  I followed PD to the hutch and got down on all fours.  I looked under the hutch, but couldn’t see anything.

PD turned and looked at me like I was stupid!  Then, coming to the conclusion that I really WAS stupid, he turned back to the china hutch and started barking while pawing at one corner.

“Do your job, Dad!  You have the hands.  Move this hutch.  It’s right here, under this corner!”  I got the message, so I moved the hutch.  And there it was, a really large tree roach, right where PD told me it would be.  PD chased the roach into the middle of the room and I stomped on it.

And so, the Great Roach Hunting partnership was born.  Now that I understood what was going on, I could be prepared for the next event.  If there was one.  After all, that could have just been a fluke.

Just in case there might be more hunts, I gave some thought to how to best deal with those large tree roaches.  They made a really big mess when squished.  I didn’t want to squish one on the throw rug.  We had a “grabber” in the kitchen.  It was about 3 feet long with a handle and trigger on one end.  The other end had a pair of suction cups attached to spring metal.  The cups were about a hand’s width apart when the grabber was at rest.  When I squeezed the trigger, the suction cups would be squeezed together.  I could use this to pick up objects off the floor or from high places.  I decided this might be useful if I could master it.

 

The tree roaches usually live in the large oak trees outside of our home.  But sometimes they venture inside either because it is too hot, too cold or too dry.  Pesticides can usually keep them out, but there are always times when even the pesticides won't work.

As it turns out, there were more hunting events.  The next time PD caught scent of a tree roach, he tracked it to its hiding place and I took off for the kitchen.  I grabbed my grabber while PD found the roach.  I’d move the furniture to expose the evil critter.  PD barked the roach into submission and I captured the roach, carrying it outside where I could squish him on the sidewalk.  PD followed me to make sure I ended the roach’s career of evil-doing.

Future events were very similar.  PD learned to chase the roaches toward me to make it easier for me to catch.  Sometimes they would try to make their escape up the wall, but I could get them with the grabber. 

The grabber was a great tool.  Unlike trying to pick up a roach with your fingers (disgusting), the roaches didn’t really seem to know it was there.  I could simply close in on them, and they wouldn’t try to escape.

It was fascinating to watch PD track a roach.  He would sniff around roach’s hiding place and let me know which side or corner of the object I needed to lift or move.  Sometimes I would move the object, a desk, hutch or bookcase, and the roach would run off in a crazy zig-zag motion. PD would track it, nose to the floor barking.

I could tell that he trusted his nose more than his eyes because he would follow the same path that the roach ran, rather than going directly to the next object that we both saw the roach scurry under.

Sometimes PD barked the offending roach into submission.  I would go into the room only to find the roach laying on its back, feet wriggling in the air, and PD barking loudly at the roach.  It looked as if PD were able to stun the roach, making it easier for me to pick up and dispose of.

Unfortunately, our hunting days are now behind us.  We have since moved into a home with a concrete foundation.  We no longer have tree roach intruders bent on doing evil things to us and our home.  I still have the grabber, just in case.  But for the most part PD and I spend uneventful evenings in front of the television watching the make believe adventures of others and only dreaming of our own exciting hunts.

Post #11: Bonnieview

My father-in-law, Bill bought a large piece of property with his best friend, William.  This about 600 acres on the Aransas River.  The nearest town was a small place called Bonnie View, and so that's what we named the property.

The Aransas River took a turn toward the bay at this point, so the property had more than its share of river frontage.  Bill had bought the property as an investment, and so it was "for sale" as soon as they purchased it.  In the meantime, this was a great place for a family with two boys to visit and explore.

The property was just across the river from the Welder Wildlife Refuge, so there was no shortage of animal life.  I took a friend to visit the property once, and he noticed something I had not.  This was the first time my city dwelling friend had ever looked around and not been able to see a utility pole.

This was a good place to hunt deer, wild hogs, turkey and dove.  I have tried my hand at deer hunting exactly two times.  The first time we went to Bonnie View as a family.  My father and his wife had pulled their travel trailer from Arizona to visit and to go hunting with me.  He loved to camp, and had never had the chance to take me on a hunt.  My father had hunted all of his life, beginning during the depression on his family farm in Iowa.  Back then, hunting was necessary to keep the family supplied in meat.  Later, he hunted for the sport of it.  He had brought his rifle and scope to give to me, since he knew he'd had his last hunt.  We slept in a tent, and they stayed in the trailer.  The camping out was great fun. 

We got up early the next morning and trudged off to our deer blinds.  Jason and John went off to a deer blind that was on one end of the property.  I remembered seeing a deer blind on the other end.  I took my elderly father to that spot. 

After a lifetime of smoking cigarettes, my father who was nearing 70, had COPD.  He carried oxygen with him wherever he went.  He had a small pack that he strapped over his shoulder or around his waist, and he could pretty much go wherever he wanted, as long as his tank didn't run empty.

So, off the two of us went.  Me carrying the rifle and scope that my dad had taken on many hunting trips, and him carrying his oxygen.  We walked, and walked, and walked some more.  The blind was a little further away than I had remembered.  I had not bothered to check on it the day before, so I was relying on old memory.  When we finally arrived, the blind was gone!  The blind had been put on the property by one of Bill's friends.  Apparently the friend had decided to take it down and move it to a new location.

Well, that was really OK with me.  I wasn't real sure that I wanted to shoot anything that day, anyway.  It was nice just to be out there with my dad.  So, we turned around and started back.  We were about half-way back to the camp site when I spotted a family of wild hogs crossing the road.  It looked like there were four adults and a half-dozen piglets.

All I could think of was that horrible scene from the book "Old Yeller."  There were a few small shrub oak around, but noting that could get us above charging wild hogs with 3' long razor sharp tusks!  Besides, my dad couldn't climb a tree with his oxygen tank.  The rifle was a single shot.  I couldn't be sure that if I shot one hog, the rest would get scared and run away.  They might just get mad and charge, instead.  I might have time to reload and shoot two more hogs, if I were quick and accurate.  But then the rest of the hogs would be on top of us.  There's that awful scene from Old Yeller again.

So, we froze.  And we waited.

And the hogs crossed the road, totally ignoring us!  Whew.

My second time to go deer hunting was a trip I made with just Jason.  We were at the property before dawn, and we each climbed into a different deer blind.  And then we waited. 

It was cold that morning as the sun turned the darkness to grey, and then brightened everything around us.  I looked into the clearing in front of me, watching for a deer to walk across my line of site, holding my father’s rifle at the ready.  As the dawn emerged on the South Texas brush country, new ideas were dawning in me.  If I did actually see a deer, I was pretty sure I would be able to shoot it, even though it would be the largest animal I had ever shot.  However, there was just a bit of doubt.  Did I really want to kill an animal?  Hogs, snakes and predators would be no problem, but a deer?  And the other concern:  Once I shot the deer, then what?  I knew nothing about gutting and skinning animals.  Doing the initial butchering to get them ready for the final job at the butcher’s shop would be a messy job.  A job I knew I wouldn’t like.

I was relieved that morning that I didn’t have to make that decision.  No deer was seen by either of us that day.  And I was able to make the decision that I am not a deer hunter.  I told this to Jason as I handed him my father’s deer rifle, letting it skip a generation as the rifle moved into the hands of a young man with more appreciation of its purpose than I had. 

The first time we went to see Bonnie View, we went as a family.  Kathy and our sons and Kathy’s sister and her husband made the 45 minute drive to check out this new piece of property.  There was a slough that collected run – off from the property and ran into the river.  It was stagnant water most of the year.  We had driven to the slough at the farthest end of the property.  Everyone got out and started exploring.  Kathy and her sister stood at the fork, watching the river and visiting.  All of us guys headed off to see how far inland the slough ran.

The boys and their uncle go interested in looking at things around the slough, and I walked back to where Kathy and sister were.  Kathy got the idea that she would like to play a little trick on the boys.  There was a small log floating just off shore.  She thought it looked a little like an alligator.  So she thought she would scare the boys and tell them there was an alligator in the water. 

The boys returned and Kathy launched into her little deceit, pointing to the log, trying to convince them that it was an alligator.  Kathy was really convincing, because, as we all watched it looked like a pair of eyes and snout were emerging from the water.  Sometimes Karma doesn’t take long to boomerang back.  This log really was a young alligator.  He was about four or five feet long.

I had my rod and reel in the back of the truck.  I grabbed it and stuck a plastic frog on the end of the line.  I was curious to see what the alligator would do with the frog.  Would it chase it?  Or just ignore it? 

He was patient, and ignored my frog the first time I cast it out to him.  The second time, he got a bit annoyed with me, and snapped at the frog.  There was no chasing.  It happened that quickly!  One snap and I had caught the alligator.  He went under water, and tried to get away, but I kept hold of the line and started to reel him in.  It was hard at first, and then it got easy.

Too easy.

That alligator resurfaced and was staring at me as I reeled him in.  Everyone started heading for their vehicles. And I began to realize that there just might a down-side to catching an 8 foot alligator.  Did he seem a bit bigger now than when I started?

We did eventually let Katie come with us, but that’s a story for next time.