Trapping a Wild Cat in the Bush: A Field Guide by Noted Outdoorsman Joel Getman
The photo above is for comparative purposes only. The actual subject of this entry looked more like this:
...or perhaps this:
At any rate, what follows is hardly true other than to say that we had a stray cat problem and now we don't.
I shall never forget the haunting sound that stirred Nan (aka TLOTH, The Lady of Two Harbors) and me from our slumber one night last week. It was an eery combination of high-pitched moaning and guttural gurgling. It was loud enough to wake the dead. And Buddy.
"There are only two creatures on Earth capable of making that horrible sound," I whispered to a terrified Nan.
"What are they?" she asked, the panic rising in her throat.
"Me after a three-putt and a stray cat," I answered confidently. "And I never golf in my pajamas so I think we have our answer." I was already transforming from my preferred persona of a mild-mannered gentleman golfer to the steely-eyed, deadly calculating big game hunter, a role I have been forced to adopt numerous times over the years. To be clear, this is not a role I seek; it's just that sometimes circumstances have forced this role upon me.
To quote Tom Petty: And I won't back down!
I spent the rest of that tormented evening replaying two earlier incidents during which I had been called upon to trap and relocate vicious, wild beasts. I was sure the lessons learned from those two harrowing episodes would serve me well in this new challenge.
As the feline's guttural gurgling transformed into a desperately sad pleading, I closed my eyes and recalled every detail of the Bat Incident.
It was 1974. Josh was three years old. Matt was barely one. We were spending the summer in Wayne, Maine where I was working as the Head of Tennis at Camp Androscoggin, a classic Maine boys' summer camp. For our accommodations we were given a cabin located on the camp's perimeter. Despite the 50 years that have passed, I shall never forget the night of the BAT.
That leathery flapping haunts me to this day.
If memory serves, it was around 2 a.m. when I was awoken by the unmistakable sound of a bat's flapping wings. My first instinct was to wake Ada. Rule #1: If at all possible, get someone else to do the dirty work.
"Ada, wake up. There's a bat in our cabin," I whispered.
"So?" she sleepily blurted.
"So? Waddaya mean 'So?' What about the kids? Don't bats eat babies? We need to do something and fast!" I urged.
"YOU need to do something. I need to hide under the covers until after you do it."
And she was right, of course. After all, men have traditionally been called upon to protect their families from wild beasts. It's practically a law. Time to step up.
I searched the cabin for any item I could use to help me in this mission. If only I had something oval-shaped with a handle and cross-section of tight strings. Then it occured to me: I was a tennis guy. With a mean topspin forehand. One of my beautiful Dunlop Maxply rackets should do the trick nicely. Game, set, and match, Bat!
I turned on the living room light and was about to swat the bat back into the Maine woods from whence it had come when I noticed that the sudden presence of light had a remarkable effect on the giant (about three inches actually) beast. Instead of flapping wildly searching for a human neck, the vile creature was clinging to the living room curtain, fast asleep. To swat him in that position would have been less than noble.
So I opened a nearby window, shut the light, and watched the creature fly out into the darkness. I had learned a valuable lesson that night: providing an escape route is preferable to any swatting.
It was a lesson I had to disregard during the second incident: The Famous Hanover Field Mouse Infestation.
I recalled my wild bat triumph and decided that providing an escape route was a good, just solution to our mouse problem. With that in mind, I opened all the doors and windows in the house while loudly singing "Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo" from Cinderella.
To say this approach didn't work would be a sad understatement. Instead of leaving, the now-entrenched mice were joined by dozens of their friends and relatives, happily marching in through the open doors and windows.
Evidently, they loved that song.
I had no choice but to go with the nuclear option. If you had had the misfortune to enter that Hanover home during any of the five mornings after the Great Invasion, you would have encountered one stiff field mouse entrapped in an old school mousetrap. Each morning a new victim. One thing about field mice: They know when they're whipped. After the fifth critter met his sad fate, the rest of them decided to take my original offer and leave.
The sad wailing of the black cat on our deck knocked me out of my reverie. Readers of these lame ramblings will recall that Nan spent many years in the loving company of cats, including sweet Missy, now gone, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the poor, sad feline bellowing outside. Something had to be done.
Ignoring the lessons of the field mice, I suggested singing the kitty off the deck. Perhaps a medley from "Cats" climaxing with a stirring rendition of "Memory" sung in my best falsetto. TLOTH reminded me that there are laws against that sort of thing so another approach was necessary.
We pondered our options over the next several days. As much as Nan wanted to invite this Missy clone into our home, she knew that the combination of Buddy and this cat's sharp claws would prove to be problematic.
"To say nothing about the rising cost of cat food," I added helpfully.
In the end a simple relocation was decided upon. No swatting. No entrapment. Just a pleasant trip in a newly-purchased $40 cat carrier to the Humane Society in neighboring Ft. Walton and our problem was solved. I tried to entice the kitty into the cat carrier by singing "There's a Place for Us" from "West Side Story." In the end, a bit of food worked just fine.
Stray cat problem solved.
Sure is quiet around here though.
Ain't life grand!
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