Ramblings

The glis-glis, also known as the European edible dormouse or European dormouse or European fat dormouse, or to use its binomial name, the glis-glis, is kind of cute, somewhere between a squirrel and a mouse.

They were a popular food in ancient Rome, served either roasted and dipped in honey or stuffed with a mixture of pork, pine nuts, and other flavorings. They are still eaten in modern Slovenia and Croatia, although if my experience of guinea pig in Peru is any guide, I wouldn’t bother.

It is a protected species, people will tell you. Well it is protected, in a very specific sense: not in the way it might want, but in the sense that the right to murder them is reserved to properly authorised people.

They are classed as an invasive species in the UK. Let’s take a look at their distribution map from Wikipedia to see if this is justified.

Well, if it’s native to the UK (albeit geographically concentrated) it’s doing a fine job of colonising Europe.

Britain owes their presence to Walter Rothschild (2nd Baron Rothschild), politician, unenthusiastic banker and keen zoologist, who brought six back from Hungary to his estate in Tring in Hertfordshire in 1902: some escaped and bred in the wild. Their current population is estimated at 10,000 – very conservatively, I suspect – mostly still concentrated within a 16-mile radius of Tring.

Glis-glis are acknowledged as a pest in the UK: they like to take up residence in attic spaces, and can cause electrical shorting and house fires by gnawing through wiring. A three-day internet outage across Tring in 2023 was attributed to glis-glis chewing through the broadband cable. In large numbers they can also damage orchards, and the species’ conservation status is Least Concern. So why is it “protected”?

The Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981 prohibits certain methods of killing dormice, because the Gliridae family of rodents is protected internationally under the Berne Convention on the Conservation of European Wildlife and Natural Habitats, to which the United Kingdom is a signatory. Only a qualified pest controller licensed by Natural England may remove glis-glis: they must use live traps, but as it is an invasive species, they may not release the animal alive, but must destroy it humanely.

The section of law under Wildlife Offences headed Prohibition of certain methods of killing or taking wild animals states, inter alia, that “Section 11 WCA 1981 prohibits killing or snaring of some animals (listed in Schedule 6 and 6ZA).”

These laws were aimed at preventing cruelty to wild animals. Unlucky for the mice and rats deemed more of a pest, or less “wild”, or perhaps just not cute enough to make it on to schedule 6 or 6ZA. It is still permitted for householders and business owners to slaughter mice and rats using traps, with the attendant risk of suffering if the trap fails to kill instantly. The legal, and by inference moral line has been drawn somewhere between dormice and mice.

I suspect that the laws regulating the destruction of glis-glis will have accelerated their spread in Britain. If a householder becomes aware of an infestation in their house, their legal options are to ignore the glis-glis, or to call in a pest control company at considerable expense. A cheaper option would be to buy and set a few rat traps, but this would be breaking the law. The removal of this option has no doubt discouraged some homeowners from taking timely action.

This information is offered in the context of the following story about someone I know well – let’s call him George – and his ongoing battle with glis-glis. It is the story of a desperate man. Warning: animal suffering.

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Part One, In Which George’s Night’s Sleep Is Ruined

It started when George and his wife Georgina heard a few ominous rustlings from the attic space above their bedroom ceiling. A few days later, they noticed small tooth marks on the soap in their en-suite bathroom. What could have caused that? The answer presented itself to George a couple of nights later during a 3am bathroom visit: there he saw a small furry animal scrabbling up the toilet bowl in a desperate escape bid.

Between them, the steep angle of the porcelain, the water at the bottom and the overhang at the top were defeating the creature. Presumably it had missed its footing on the seat on the return trip after its nightly soap meal – probably heading for the small gap in the boarding leading to its home in the attic space, under the pipe – and slipped in.

George’s first thought was protection and retreat. He shut the lid down, and placed the brush holder down on top, in case Georgina thought to use the toilet. He pulled on a pair of stout jeans, and took his relief downstairs while he considered his options.

A lawyer by training, and an upstanding citizen, he realised he was facing ethical, legal and practical problems. The first he quickly dealt with: this animal was not staying in his loo, and he didn’t care how this was achieved. The second question was knottier: to stay within the law he needed to hire a licensed killer – a wildlife 007, if you like. He regarded the matter as urgent, but sensed he was unlikely to get a sympathetic – or economic – response from a pest control operative at this hour.

Having decided to break the law, he addressed the practical matter. The beast was not small: even if it could be successfully flushed, it would likely block the pipe. George quickly dismissed this option. Then he remembered the barbecue tongs in the kitchen drawer. He took them and made his way back upstairs. Bracing himself, he quickly lifted the lid, seized the creature with the tongs and held it underwater. It struggled for a while, then the bubbles stopped. George lifted it out, placed it in a plastic bowl, and put it outside with the food waste.

High on the adrenaline rush of battle, George got back to sleep only about twenty minutes before his alarm went off. For some reason Georgina soon bought another pair of barbecue tongs and relegated the old pair to a new home under the kitchen sink.

Part Two, In Which Professional Help Is Engaged

George and Georgina were untroubled by nocturnal rustlings for some time, until George visited the attic space to bring out a suitcase. When he switched on the light, he found himself face to face with what looked like a squirrel. They looked at each other for a few seconds before both deciding to postpone battle to another day. George quickly closed the attic door. Loud and persistent rustlings over the next few days persuaded him that it was time for action.

This time the law and pragmatism pointed in the same direction: it would be illegal to try to deal with them himself, and the scale of the perceived infestation suggested the need for a professional. After taking soundings from local worthies, he called Peter the Pest.

Peter the Pest was very thorough. He walked round the outside of the house, finding small gaps under the guttering which would need to be plugged to prevent access by the little varmints. He recommended cutting the plants climbing the walls a distance below the roof, so the pests couldn’t use them as ladders – although George imagined they could probably still hoof it up the pebble-dashing.

When Peter shone his torch into the attic, he caught sight of one of the animals. Not a squirrel, he told George, a glis-glis. Peter was mightily relieved that he wasn’t dealing with rats. “It’s nearly impossible to get rid of those things” he said, “they don’t fall for traps, and if you poison them they crawl away and die in a corner, and stink to high heaven.” George asked whether Peter had acquired a kind of respect for rats, as worthy adversaries. “Nah, I hate the bloody things.”

Peter set to work up a ladder, plugging holes. Then he requested an apple as bait, and brought in a selection of six traps: to George’s untrained eye they looked by no means like live traps. It seemed his attempt to stay within the law had been only partially successful. Peter secured the traps with wire to the beams in the attic – to prevent trapped but still mobile animals disappearing with them into the far reaches of the space – and baited them.

“Are you or your wife squeamish?” he asked. George, normally a compassionate, politely spoken and gentle man, had been pushed to the edge. “Never mind that, you carry on and kill the little fuckers.”

Peter promised to return the next day to check the traps. When he did so, four of the six had done their brutal work. George reflected that the first victim might have been unlucky: the next three, perhaps, not too bright. He found himself taking a grim satisfaction in the slaughter. Peter pointed out that there may well be more lurking, and to call him again if they thought so.

But George had a couple of rat traps in the garden shed, and reasoned that now the colony had been decimated, and he had seen how it was done, he could deal with any stragglers himself at much lower cost. Peter had not exactly followed the law: why would this be different? The next few weeks brought a steady trickle of small corpses, feasted on by red kites in daytime and foxes at night when George left them on the lawn. On one occasion the trap had been only partially effective, and squealing was heard from the attic. George had to resolve this with a bucket of water and those trusty barbecue tongs.

After a few weeks the traps stayed empty and the rustlings stopped. The battle was won. But not the war.

Part Three, In Which Wilma Is Pressed Into Service

Glis-glis weren’t done yet with disturbing George’s slumber. One morning at 5:40, in a moment of lighter sleep, he discerned a small but unmistakeable scurrying sound close by. In the dim light he could make out a small dark shape against the cupboard door. He opened the curtain enough to see that it was a glis-glis. Georgina was also awake by now.

Wilma, an ageing, grumpy and unprepossessing rescue Jack Russell cross, was asleep downstairs. They loved her very much, although she had never yet done anything useful. But was she not, mostly, a terrier? Perhaps this was an opportunity for her to earn her keep. George and Georgina put on their dressing gowns and slippers, shut the door behind them and went downstairs, returning soon with – yes – those barbecue tongs, a pair of gardening gloves, a bucket full of water, and one slightly confused and sleepy Jack Russell cross.

George re-entered the bedroom with Wilma, shut the door behind them, and spotted the beast on the chest of drawers. He chased it down with the tongs. Once it was on the floor, Wilma was no longer confused or sleepy. There was a brief chase, then silence – it took less than 30 seconds, and there was no mess. When George picked up the glis-glis with the tongs and held it underwater, this time there were no bubbles. He threw the carcass out on the front lawn, and within twenty minutes a red kite had enjoyed a tasty breakfast. As had Wilma.

George has not won: he never can. When I saw him yesterday he looked pale and stressed. The rustlings were back, and he had just risked his fingers by setting three traps. The war goes on.

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What can we learn from George’s story? That I’m very grateful that we’ve never had glis-glis in our house. That bad law can make an outlaw of any one of us. And that the mildest, most polite Englishman becomes a psycho when defending his castle.