The Mouse Whisperer

The Mouse Whisperer

Tuning In

After the Pounce, Dig

The Winged Mouse Whisperer

Come Out, Come Out

Time to Go Home

With head cocked and floppy ears perked, the Mouse Whisperer of Elmira Pond squats in the snow as still as Blue Heron. Not even a single toenail twitches. Suddenly, she launches her 60-pound body into the air, straight up, and pounces hard on the crunchy shelf of snow to break all the way through to the mass of dry grass beneath.

Bobo is hunting mice.

German Short-haired Pointers (GSPs) are German-engineered to hunt. Yet they were the common man's dog, and often they hunted where the common man was not allowed to go, bringing back rabbits for dinner. GSPs are stealthy, intelligent and sleek. Their long square snouts flare to catch the slightest scent and their keen ears can hear the quiet steps of mice tunneling under snow.

Bobo has the patience of a hunter. Unlike her brother Grendel who is a carefree runner, she is content to hang out in the horse pastures that surround Elmira Pond. Ever so silently she whispers to mice, coaxing them into movement, waiting...waiting...until the precise moment to pounce. And she will wait, statue-still for that moment.

Today the sky is moody with steely clouds that seem to grump as they pass. Or maybe it's me who's moody. Clear up or snow is my grumpy complaint to the clouds that seem to press low over our valley. It's warm enough to melt, but nothing dramatic; the ground seems to suck water from snow like a toddler with a juice-box and straw. It leaves a crusty shell of dingy snow that lingers.

Evidently such melts trigger mice movements. The Mouse Whisperer detects the subtle change and stands guard over several mounds. After the pounce, she digs like someone who just discovered a cache of coins. In fact, I sometimes hope that she does dig up an interesting object or two. But the snow prevents me from poking around her dug holes. I'm not a great hunter; I dislike waiting and this waiting for spring always gets me itching.

Overhead a hawk circles low, as if recognizing a fellow Mouse Whisperer. He lands in a low branch in the tamarack overlooking Bobo and her snow holes. He is patient, too. Ever so slowly the low gray clouds pass by, trailing more shadows.

I whistle, and the Mouse Whisperer gallops home.