Justifiable Pesticide

In which an undaunted alumnus in the wilds of the Berkshires draws the line

Out here in the country, critters sentimentally regarded by city folk can be downright obnoxious. On principle I have nothing against wild life, as long as it remains in its natural habitat, television.

I cheerfully clean up the garbage strewn about my driveway following the weekly raids of hungry beasties. Live and let live. I don't resent that they annually devour my wife's corn patch. Shucks, who needs fresh sweet corn? But a man has to draw the line somewhere. Gary Cooper drew the line in High Noon; John Wayne drew the line in Stagecoach; the French drew the Maginot Line. I drew the line at sharing my house with the little buggers.

Last winter we heard bustling noises right under the kitchen floor. Since we live in a renovated barn, there's no basement. Lots of outrageously expensive insulation, but no basement. At first we tried to pretend that the crawling and breathing were the sound of hyperactive mice.

"If that's a mouse, it's Moby Mouse," I complained to my wife, who is responsible for everything that goes wrong.

"Whatever it is, it will gib away," she replied hopefully, which is the correct use of hopefully.

"Aw, bullroar! It's tearing out the insulation to make nests!"

Next morning I discovered raccoon tracks in the snow. I asked my neighbor Zeke to loan me his golden retriever overnight thought it might scare off the coon. "The hell I will," responded Zeke adamantly. "Don't you know that a cornered raccoon will attack a dog? Ole Shep would get ripped to shreds by them sharp teeth and claws. Get yourself a trap."

I presented myself at the local general store. "I'd like to trap a coon. Got something to execute it painfully?"

"Can't sell you that," said the friendly proprietor. "Only carry Have-A-Heart traps. State law. Don't work too well, neither."

Neither were they cheap. I prevailed upon him to rent me a Have-A-Heart trap for a week. What I planned to do with a trapped coon, with its notoriously sharp teeth and claws, I hadn't yet determined. First things first.

No luck for three nights. Every evening I could hear the sounds of insulation being ripped out by the square yard, as my kitchen was being converted into a raccoon condominium. "Bells in the Berkshires! Reasonable rates, cable television, shuffle board, and all you can eat." It, or (God forbid) they, polished off the fruit and sardines I left as lure. Finally I put a juicy steak way in the back of the trap.

Next morning in the trap was a bloated raccoon, sitting like a complacent Buddha. "Jeeze," I observed to my wife, "I didn't realize they were so big."

Next step was to procure a Have-A-Heart Adapter.

"Zeke, can I borrow your shotgun?"

"Nope. Loaned it to my brother. Didn't know you hunted."

I explained my predicament. Zeke advised me to set it free in Hopkins Forest. He didn't remind me to beware its sharp teeth and claws.

"You don't happen to be headed toward Hopkins Forest this morning?" I inquired.

"Nope . . . Course you could always chuck the whole thing into the Green River."

This option would cost me fifty bucks for the trap. I elected to head for Hopkins Forest. Within an hour I had outfitted myself with Have-A-Heart Protective Equipment: football helmet, ski goggles, shin pads, L. L. Bean hiking boots, insulated woodburner's gloves, and three layers of clothing long underwear to goose-down parka. I decided to forgo the rabies shot.

"Are you expecting nuclear war?" asked my wife.

"Never mind the wisecracks, woman. You want to deposit King Kong in Hopkins Forest?" I exited muttering irritably to myself. It occurred to me that the English language lacks a useful word. We have infanticide, fratricide, matricide, and patricide, but no word for doing in those vermin that taunt us most: justifiable pesticide?

Unfortunately Zeke was standing in my driveway inspecting the raccoon. When he saw me he didn't say anything just kind of cocked his head and blinked incredulously. I waited until he left to lift the trap with my baseball bat. Wearing all that garb, I had trouble getting into the driver's seat. In the back of the station wagon the raccoon was suspiciously docile. He was either saving his energy for the attack or too stuffed to move.

Wondering how I could open the trap without jeopardizing my person, I made my way up Bulkley Street. While glancing over my shoulder I drove over a deep pothole. With a crash the trap turned over releasing Rocky Raccoon, free and loaded for bear.

In my haste to pull over I almost crashed into my department chairman, backing out of his driveway. "What do you think this is, a stock car race?" he asked, peering curiously at my outfit.

"Sorry about that, I was about to be attacked by a vicious raccoon. Give me a couple of clotheshangers, will you?"

Necessity being the mother of invention, I devised a Rube Goldberg device for opening the hatch-back door from a full six feet away. But the raccoon stubbornly refused to move. I went around to the front of the car and banged on the windshield, to no avail. Quite a crowd, including a bunch of kids waiting for the schoolbus, had collected on Bulkley Street. Finally I climbed up on the roof, stomped around, and made enough noise to scare it off.

Not a totally unpleasant experience, mused, as I returned the trap to the general store. After all, I had drawn the line but still had a heart. How many people, tough enough to be gentle, survive to become raccoonteurs?

Dr. Bell, who has published widely in both theacademic and the non-academic arenas, teachesEnglish .at Williams College.