I have an uneasy truce with the many exotic creatures that make their home in my yard, some of which I find charming (the rabbit that moved in recently) while some I detest (the smug iguana that leaves his enormous droppings on the front porch.)
The iguana was getting awfully bold, and a little too comfortable around people, and although I maintain a strict “live and let live” policy outside the house, there is an unspoken understanding that the outside critters cannot come inside.
I don’t even know if iguanas want to come inside, but I remember reading an article on the Internet suggesting that iguanas are afraid of cats, and the author recommended scattering used kitty litter around the yard on the theory that the strong cat smell would scare the iguana. Like a fool, I spread the cat litter liberally around the front porch, essentially trading iguana droppings for cat droppings. The cat litter had absolutely no effect on the iguana and two days later I caught my 8-year old nephew feeding the iguana his hotdog. Showing remarkable self-control, I said, “Please don’t feed the iguana,” to my nephew, and “Shoo!” to the iguana, both of whom ignored me.
I was telling this story to several friends recently over dinner at a tiny little Italian restaurant on New York’s Upper West Side. The restaurant is in an old brownstone and features a walled garden in the back, and we decided to eat outside since it was a pleasant night. It had been a warm day and I was wearing jeans and flip-flops.
As I was telling my story I felt something unmistakably warm and furry brush fleetingly against my bare foot. A moment later I felt it again, and I looked under the table and saw a tiny mouse nibbling unconcernedly on a piece of bread. Knowing how New Yorkers detest rodents, and pursuing my “live and let live policy” I nudged the mouse with my big toe. The mouse ignored me, so I said “Shoo!” which the mouse also ignored.
Thinking to lure the mouse away before the manager saw him and blood was shed, I discreetly threw a crust of bread to the far side of the patio, which was covered with lush ivy. The mouse dutifully ran to the ivy and ate the bread. I returned to the conversation.
When the mouse came back I threw more bread; this happened multiple times, the mouse apparently thinking it was a game. By this time my friends caught on to my weird behavior and decided to join in, throwing bread into the ivy so the mouse could hide. Finally, the mouse disappeared; I assumed he was full. I was wrong.
Minutes later I discerned movement in the ivy, and what I saw made me jump considerably. The mouse had returned with, easily, a dozen of his nearest relatives and dearest friends. The herd of mice began advancing, stealthily, on our table, looking for a handout.
I had one crust left. “Live and let live,” I muttered, flinging the crust directly into the path of the advancing restaurant manager. The mice saw the manager and, wisely, retreated back to the ivy while the manager walked purposely to our table.
I looked up expectantly, certain that he was going to apologize profusely, buy us a bottle of wine or perhaps even comp our entire check; I certainly would have if I had been in his shoes. But then it dawned on me that the manager was not smiling. He cleared his throat importantly. “Please don’t feed the mice,” he said.