Muskrat Ramble   

I don’t know about you, but for much of my life I’ve wished it were possible for humans truly to be friends with wild animals.  When they’re observed, especially if they aren’t aware of our observation, they can be entertaining, even enchanting.  I’ll never forget the day I discovered muskrat kits and thought that I’d seldom seen any creature more appealing.  The first time I saw them I wasn’t able to see their eyes for all the dark, soft fur on their little faces, but it soon became apparent that their eyesight was better than my own.

When we moved into the cottage in Pottersville, some forty years ago, I had no idea what sort of life was to be found in the pond below the house.  One day when there was time to do so, I decided to go as far around the pond as was possible, although some parts of the bank were far too muddy and too overgrown with brambles to be passable.  While I was walking around the water I saw something shining in the bright sunlight and was curious about what it might be.  It didn’t take long to discover that it was a fairly heavy chain and that made me more inquisitive about what could be on the end of it.  I took hold of it and drew it partway up the bank of the pond and quickly found out that it was attached to a mean-looking leghold trap.  There was also a tag fastened to the chain above the trap with a name and address stamped on  its metal surface.

I doubt there are many women who do much, if any trapping.  To me, it’s horrible cruelty to have an unsuspecting animal suddenly seized by a leg and held underwater to drown in pain and terror.  You may guess from this sentiment that I detest trapping greatly.  I can countenance hunting—yes, I know there are those of my fellow DVWFFA members who hunt, and I count one of them among my best friends—but the kill is nearly always quick and clean.  Besides that, most of the hunters I know even casually eat their quarry and feed family and friends in the bargain.  But trapping?  Please, spare me too many thoughts about that method.  To me, it’s a “man’s thing,” and I’m not always happy with men’s ways of doing things they consider amusing.

Since the trap was set and ready to catch something, I felt the least I could do for whatever it was supposed to catch was to spring the thing.  I went up to the shed and found an old piece of pipe that I used to spring the trap.  The way it snapped around the pipe sounded so vicious I could imagine its seizing some poor creature by the leg, probably also breaking that leg in the bargain.  Somehow I knew the one I’d found wasn’t the only trap in the pond since, after all, it’s seldom a trapper sets a single one of his horrible devices.  Therefore I decided to check around to see how many more there were in or about the pond.

There was a pair of hip boots in the shed, and I put them on and walked with great care on the margin of the pond, looking about for the gleam of another chain in the sunlight.  Altogether I located four traps and that led me to wonder why they’d been set.  Was whoever the owner was trying to catch mink?  I’d seen one already but only one so I continued to wonder what it was the fellow was after.  I decided, of course, that I couldn’t leave the things intact in case some poor animal was caught, so it seemed to make sense to me at least to spring them.

I read the name on the tag and decided it was somewhat familiar.  It was then I recalled that the man was a well-known poacher and I knew neither he nor his traps had any business on the property because the woman who owned it would never have permitted any activity like trapping to take place on her premises.  That aroused my always short-fused temper and I made up my mind not only to spring the traps but to disable them permanently.  Since I found them somewhat heavy to carry, chain and all, I took them two at a time up to the side of the shed where there was a sort of patio of granite blocks.  When they were all assembled I went into the shed to fetch my pet weapon, the six-pound sledgehammer. 

Have you ever seen what a six-pound sledgehammer can do to a trap itself?  The chains escaped injury except for a few scratches, but I had a perfectly wonderful time rendering the traps permanently inoperative.  Please don’t even breathe the word “illegal,” because that’s not something that bothers me greatly.  My motto is “Better tried by twelve than carried by six,” depending on the circumstances, and at any rate I was having too much fun with my personal demolition derby.  In addition, I’m a Scot and there are those of us who don’t trouble our heads overmuch with legalities.

When the traps lay in bits and pieces, I fetched a carton and tossed them, chains, tags, and all other components into it.  Then I put the carton into my car and drove down to the little Post Office where I asked the clerk whether he knew whose traps they were.  His facial expression gave away what he thought of their owner; he looked as though he’d bitten into something very sour so it was easily discerned that the fellow wasn’t popular in at least that quarter.

I told him, “I have a message for this joker.  Tell him from Margaret Clarke that if he ever shows up again on Mrs. Blank’s place, these traps are rather like what he’s going to look like.”  He grinned and nodded, then asked me what I’d used to demolish the traps.  In my own turn, I smiled and said, “Six-pound sledge.  Do you know what he was trying to catch?”

The clerk said he thought the poacher had been after muskrats since they were known to live in the pond.  Because muskrats are just about completely harmless creatures, I decided there was no reason to kill them so inhumanely just for their pelts.  The poacher probably would have earned very little with only four traps, but it could have been even greater fun for me to break a few more of his horrible devices into scrap metal.  I left the Post Office and drove back to the house and, when my husband came home I told him about my busy day.  His response was that if our local poacher wanted trouble he’d come to the right address and would do well to give us a wide berth.  Since my husband was Scottish and Irish, he combined the temperament of both types of Celt and, even though he wasn’t a big man, I’d seen him more than once knock a horse off its feet, using only his fists.

When the next afternoon came, I decided to go down to the pond to wait to see whether any muskrats were forthcoming.  The grass was dry, so I sat down while waiting.  Some fifteen minutes later there was a movement in the water and immediately thereafter three small, dark-furred animals came shuffling up the bank, each with a long grass stem in its mouth.  I found them absolutely enchanting because, first of all they were small, obviously very young muskrats, and they were furry, almost cuddly-looking despite their fur’s being wet. 

I sat as still as I possibly could, barely even breathing and the muskrats came even nearer until they were up at the level of the knees of my spread legs.  There they sat, chewing away, the long stems of grass growing shorter with every grind of their jaws.  I kept silent as long as I could but at last wasn’t able to resist saying quietly, “Hello, there.”  Three little heads jerked up simultaneously and that motion was followed at once by the kits’ zipping down the mud-slide on the bank and splashing into the water.

  I thought they were gone for good, but very soon afterwards the water stirred and they came back up the bank as far as they’d done earlier.  This time each of them had a new grass stem and as they shuffled forward they were chewing away.  I wished very much it was possible really to play with them, to tease and finally feed them with grass stalks, but no wild creature with any sense will let a human get too close.  I’d have loved to pat them, although they probably would have nipped my hand, but how I wanted to touch their fur!  I repeated the game of saying, “Hello, there!” and at the sound of my voice they once again went down their mud-slide, ending safely in the water.  This happened another few times and each time I continued to find the little creatures fascinating.

While they were still in the water, I noticed two larger muskrats swimming toward the bank.  They didn’t approach too closely to me but dived under the surface, their sickle-shaped tails going down last.  I waited to see what would happen, and it wasn’t too long afterwards that one of the large ones surfaced, after which the three little ones popped up, one at a time, and the second big muskrat brought up the rear of the parade.  The afternoon was wearing on and it was nearly time to go into the house to start on dinner, but I wondered where they might be going.  The one in front turned sharply away from the bank and swam parallel to it with the babies following closely and what was likely to have been Dad Muskrat going last. 

They swam until they drew near what looked like a heap of soil on which grass and weeds were growing.  One at a time, the muskrats, large and small, disappeared beneath the surface and weren’t seen again.  I was sure the soil was the top of their lodge and since they were safely at home I was very pleased that there would be no traps for them to contend with.  That wasn’t the last time I saw the little muskrat family.  All I needed to do was say to my husband, “I’m going down to ‘play’ with the muskrats,” and when I was settled on the bank of the pond and had waited a while they invariably came back.  I saw them on and off all summer long and was very glad they were safe because they were so amusing and delightful to watch.  It was as close as I could manage to get to playing with them in reality, but perhaps one day, in some other place at some other time, my wish actually to play with them may come true.

   - Margaret B. Clarke - 
 Winter 2002 Issue