Panama Farmlife March 5, 2025

 Eeeaaaoooo. Eeeaaaoooo.  It is 3a.  The vocalization jars my deep sleep.  Sounds like a raptor.  Not an owl.   Terradactyl maybe.  Whatever it is... I want to silence it.  Kill it.  The dogs erupt in frenzied barking.  Sleep is gone.

I am an absolute animal lover and crusader of rights of every living thing.  Yet, limits... I do have limits. In the tropics on a farm, I have limits.  In my house?  If it can't be encouraged to leave on its own accord, scooped in a cup and thrown out the front door or guided by the broom to find a path out... I will help it depart...this life if necessary.  Yes.  This animal lover will use any means available to eradicate the threat.   Especially if its presence may be harmful to me, my husband or our fur babies.  Out on the farm?  Harmful to the horses or pig?  There are no limits to the type of encouragement used to relocate whatever it is.  

6a. Barking.  Time to go out and empty bladders.  I drag myself out of bed and my feet find my Oofos.  Bare feet on the floor will never happen.  Scorpions make certain of that.  With the dry season in full dryness, the march of the scorpions into the house is relentless. The front door is opened and the Baskerville Hounds scramble out into the cool morning. I visit the bathroom. Coffee is next.  The trash gets bussed out the side door to the garbage cans.  Wait!  Something sounds different. What is that I hear?  Running water! Where is it coming from?  Peering over the side railing, I see water flowing down the stairs into the dog run. A broken line.  But, from where?  Closer inspection yields tree roots snaking behind a rock facade exactly where the water is flowing out. The water to the farm is hastily turned off before the tanks deplete.  A concrete jackhammer is needed to fully expose the break for repair.  A call is placed to the handyman. He can come the following day.  Toilet flushing will have to be closely metered until then. 

Ding!  Mid-day.  My phone.  Another animal lover calls for advice.  Knows that Gary is a veterinarian.  Mice have infested her attic.  Husband saw them.  Used sticky pads.  Tried to dislodge them from the goo to set them free.  With her bare hands.  She is now observing them to make certain they are OK to release. But, that goo....and a series of questions to ensure their survival.

Where one draws the line on animal rights is a very personal decision.  For me? That line is based on science, knowledge of species and particularly the diseases, pain or death they can transmit to humans, dogs, cats or horses.  That reduces my list of varmint tolerance and their rights...just a bit.  Hanta virus, rabies, equine protozoal myeloencephalitis (transmitted by urine of infected mammals of the rodent family), leptospirosis (urine/body fluid transmitted) and more are all here in Panama. Venomous insects, serpents, amphibians, and humans are for another blog.  Love remains in my heart, but my mind can be murderous. Survival instinct.

Gary provides counsel grounded in years of working with rodents in his research career.  Best solution to several problems that could occur or reoccur with release is to euthanize. He advises several ways of doing this without drugs.  Not likely any vet here will do a house call for this.  Then he shifts focus to her.  Wash your hands and stay vigilent if any flu-like symptoms appear.  If so, go to the doctor and explain the rodent exposure and be tested for Hanta.  Treatment?  Anti-virals.  If the hospital has them.  Her buoyant voice sinks...to the depths.  I tell her I understand that this was not what she wanted to hear, that I feel her pain.  And I do.  To my personal limit.

Last week I took stock of the tack room.  Making note of all the long ignored cleaning of the leather tack, I notice something amiss.  Poop.  Rodent poop all along the corners where the floor meets the walls. The plastic garbage cans containing the horse grain are moved aside and then I see it.  It sees me.  A rather large mouse makes a run for the open door and disappears into the daylight.  Aha!  Broom and dustpan in hand I begin to sweep the floor and stop on mid-sweep.  This is how Hanta can be transmitted.  Mouse droppings dried and released into the air as dust. I hold my breathe and step back out into the sun.  Mask, I need a mask.  No mask.  Damn!  Gotta get those droppings out and discourage that mouse from returning.  Jugs of vinegar sit on the floor used for resolving the stink of urine in the horse stalls.  I smile.  Problem solved.  Survival. Hanta won't get me...this time.  At least not via dust.  And the vinegar odor will last long enough to discourage the rodent from returning.  Murder not needed, for now.

Some time back I began looking for an alternative bedding for the horse stalls.  Over the months, all the accumulated waste mixed with straw and wood shavings creates a damp unhealthy floor that is impossible to keep clean.  Another one of my horsie ladies installed thick rubber mats on the stall cement floors. This allows for easy pickup of solids and hosing out the remaining liquids.  We built our stalls with a cement floor pitched to one side where drain holes would encourage liquid to exit.  The foundation was already in place.  

Our resident horse vet encourages me to first try the rubber mats in one stall and see how that works.  Good advice.  The mats are acquired and then put down in my horse's stall after all the bedding has been dug out, the floor thoroughly cleaned and then painted with a cement sealer on top of which the mats would rest.  OK.  I can be a bit over the top with my animal's creature comforts and cleanliness. Do it right or don't do it.  A motto I live by.  Or will die by...given how much work doing it 'right' creates for me!   

Che is ensconced in his newly rubberized stall and seems to be OK with it. Even though the floor level is now 6 inches lower from the cement lip of the stall than it was with the bedding.  No problem for him.  But... a big problem for Porky.  5:30a.  Just before sunrise.  Shrieking!  Not the terradactyl.  Porky is screaming to get out of Che's stall.  The lip of the stall is now too high for him to climb out.  The shrieking stops.  Grunting ensues. I turn over and go back to sleep. 

Ding!  7a.  The farm worker, Alex, sends a message that Porky is stuck in Che's stall. Can't jump out.  A cement block is installed.  All good. Porky knows stairs. The day forward is uneventful...until late afternoon.  Time for the horses to return to their stalls in preparation for feeding.  I decide to check on Che myself and see how he is doing with the rubber floor.  I signal for him to go in his stall.  He stands and looks at me. I encourage with tongue clicking and take a step toward him.  Head fake... takes off bucking and running to the far end of the pasture.  After 15 minutes of this... I give up.  He will go in himself or he will stay outside for the night.   He stays out.  Porky goes in.  Next morning, I survey the view from the terrace with coffee cup in hand.  Alex approaches to do the stall cleaning and set up the morning feeding.  He walks over to Che and then together they peacefully go into the stall. Murder

flashes across my mind. No. The horse.

That terradactyl vocalization? The mating call of the cacomistle, a small nocturnal omnivorous tree dwelling mammal related to racoons, kinkajous and coati. Habitation is Costa Rica and West Panama highlands.

If I see a terradactyl perched in our trees, you will be the first to know!