Full disclosure — As I was tinkering with this piece, I believed the “Easter Weasel” existed only in my head, titled because the beast showed up at the beginning of Holy Week, another Catholic fossil buried in my subconscious. I was unaware two lawyers — one sent an elderly woman to jail for stealing Easter eggs — concocted a yarn with the Easter Bunny beginning as a weasel in disguise, turning it into a children’s book.
One consistency of my winter walks is scanning the landscape for the variety of creatures who share the solitude of our back road, especially the more elusive ones. Spotting a vacationing snowy owl or cavorting otter carries with it a sense of accomplishment — a poor man’s Sir David Attenborough, youthfully questing well into his 90s, providing a stellar spirit guide for retirees hoping to reconnect with the Earth before — well — reconnecting with the Earth.
Among my favorites is a creature I’ve seen only intermittently over the years, largely because it’s nearly invisible in its winter coat of pure white, protecting it from predators while concealing it from prey. For the short-tailed weasel or — in seasonal camo — the ermine, the same luxurious fur that baffles and conceals did not go unnoticed by humans, becoming prized in the fur trade for warmth and beauty, fashioned into garments or decorative touches for royalty and other wealthy elites across Europe.
I was excited at seeing one, especially with winter winding down, prompting transition back to earthy brown. My wife saw it first, mistaking what it was, thinking she’d spotted a mink. At first, I assumed I’d misunderstood: “You saw it where?” Confirming what I’d chalked up to my less-than-perfect hearing: “In the living room — under the wood stove.” And there it was, its undeniable cuteness compromised somewhat by its location, moving like a little furry Slinky along the wall, darting behind the wood box.
I was up against a formidable foe. I knew I had to match it stealth for stealth so I chose my equipment carefully, deciding eventually on a long-handled broom, my trusty trout net and the cover to the wok. Ditching the net, (only two hands) I wielded the wok cover and broom, approaching the wood box intending to dislodge the little bastard by plopping the cover over him like a stir fry as he emerged. If you’re anticipating this scenario not quite working out as I’d planned, you’d be correct.
Technically a stoat, the short-tailed weasel arrived here from Europe half a million years ago via the Bering land bridge as sea levels receded. The weasel’s ancestors — once larger — underwent a size reduction as forests turned to grassland, prompting what has been described as the “explosive evolution” of small, burrowing rodents providing a new food source. Stoats consequently thrived during the Ice Age as well, their small, slender bodies perfect for hunting through burrows or under deep snow.
One of the world’s “worst invaders,” they were brought to New Zealand in the 19th century to control rabbits but overstayed their welcome, devastating bird populations, as well as Aussie ornithologists. However horrifying this sounds, one was sufficient to tax my patience, however festooned I was with weaponry, which my adult son reminded me later was reminiscent of “Martin the Warrior” — the heroic mouse of the Redwall novels we used to read when we were both much younger. Martin’s sworn enemies were the marauding stoats, as he bravely defended Redwall Abbey, as we both often drifted off to sleep.
In that spirit, I made my move, poking the broom handle behind the wood box, at the ready to capture the furball as he sought to make his escape. I will be the first to admit I wasn’t quite prepared for the velocity with which he rocketed across the room and under the refrigerator. My wife reentered the room asking if I’d neutralized the threat. “Not yet” I replied, sounding less confident even to myself. But I had another, way better plan B I would employ. With one eye on the refrigerator door, I opened one of the sliding doors to the deck, where I would herd the diminutive demon back to nature where he belonged.
The broom would be the primary weapon system with the wok cover a backup if he needed corralling. But when I dislodged him from his under-fridge bunker, he darted instead under the stove where he again needed to be coaxed out. This time, as he darted out of hiding toward the living room, like an all-pro cornerback, I had the angle on him, ready for the all-important broom swipe that would send him back to the preferred ecosystem for such creatures. As I wound up for the liberating slapshot, Helene’s blood curdling scream rendered me momentarily deafer than usual.
I hesitated just enough, allowing him to break into the clear and head upstairs into the loft, with the TV and enough cabinets, nooks and crannies, not to mention access to the eaves, where J.D. Salinger and Salman Rushdie could have comfortably bunked, undetected by intrusive fans or vengeful Ayatollahs. And there, he spitefully treats us to a fleeting glimpse now and then but judiciously avoids the shiny, new Havahart trap I bought only because he’s so damned cute.
He’s a carnivore. We’re not. And I’m reluctant to ask the butcher for a tablespoon of ground beef, but we’re getting there. Beginning with a sardine, we’ve escalated to aromatic anchovies without luck and then cat food — chicken with gravy or beef and liver? Both rejected. He might be content reducing our ample mouse population because he’s a voracious consumer, so there’s a small temptation to pretend he’s a weirdly shaped cat and let him stay.
Epilogue: 8:30 a.m. Wednesday, the Easter Weasel remains at large. I might have to swallow my pride and call in “Martin the Warrior.”
Walt Amses lives in North Calais.
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