The Critter Hunter

He stalks skunks, raccoons, foxes, snakes, and more—any wild varmint that's invaded city or suburb. Got bats in the Attic? Rick Wilberschied is on the case

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The Arsenal: Wilberschied's truck carries his critter-hunting tools. Here are a few: (1) The syringe pole comes in handy with animals trapped in spots where they can't escape, say, a window well. It is also used to inject animals already in a trap. (2) Bazooka Joe is a bait that does indeed smell like bubble gum. Used primarily to attract raccoons, it can be slathered on a stick hung in a trap or smeared on the bottom of a cage. (3) The noose pole is used in certain live-capture situations (instead of a trap), such as when a raccoon pokes its head through an opening. ("You can't just reach your hand in there," says Wilberschied.)

He's called to pull a bird from a church wall. He's summoned to catch a squirrel with a sweet tooth that's been raiding a water park concession. ("It was breaking into the food supply," Wilberschied says. "They called me when they saw it run by with a PayDay in its mouth.") There have been celebrity homes, including those of a couple of major sports figures and even a rock star. (Wilberschied asked that I not reveal their names.) He's often called to golf courses to hunt gophers and woodchucks, gigs that are virtually guaranteed to elicit Caddyshack shtick from the people who hired him. ("If I had a nickel for every Bill Murray imitation I've heard . . . ," he says.)

In the Midwest, early spring to early summer is the season of the raccoon. Female raccoons give birth only once a year and their search for a place to raise their pups can become urgent. Attics and basements are favorite squatting sites. "They're warm, they're out of the elements, and there's often good food sources around," Wilberschied says.

The problem is, the animals tend to poop and pee a lot. And scratch and claw. And chirp and chatter. And, when cornered, attack.

One afternoon, I was feeling sorry for a raccoon that Wilberschied had loaded into his truck. She seemed so mellow. She fixed me with her black-ringed burglar's eyes. She twitched her nose. Awwwww.

Wilberschied understood. "They go a couple of different ways. They can be really mellow like her. Or they can be like terrorists, nothing but muscle and attitude, and everything in the world to back that attitude up."

The truth is, raccoons have up to 600 pounds per square inch of bite pressure in their jaws—a German shepherd has about 900—and "claws that can slash a piece of thick boot leather," says Wilberschied. "I've had 'em where they've reached out through the cage and just slashed my pants. They're like Freddy Krueger with four feet. Put a raccoon in a room with a pit bull and guess which one isn't coming out. But yeah, they are cute."

The Critter Hunter understands, then, why people get upset over what he does. "They call me Bambi killer and stuff like that, but that's OK. Thing is, a lot of people don't realize that I'm required by law to euthanize raccoons and skunks"—skunks explicitly, and raccoons for the lack of other good options. With raccoons, wildlife operators have the choice of releasing the animal within 100 yards of the property (not the favorite option for someone trying to get rid of a critter), turning it over to a vet for weeks of quarantine and release (not the favorite option of vets), or euthanizing the creature. State law requires that all captured skunks be euthanized, however, because of the risk of rabies.

The Illinois DNR's Bluett, who also describes himself as an animal lover, says the last solution is often the most humane. "It may make us feel better to let them go," he says, "but it doesn't necessarily change the outcome for the animal and may mean he is exposed to disease or, as is often the case, a car."

People don't realize that Wilberschied releases most other animals on the grounds of his Harvard home or at various release sites around the state. Or that, unlike many wildlife nuisance operators, he wraps his traps in dark plastic to shield trapped critters from the sun and gives them food and water.

"I'm like anybody else," he says. "I've got a heart and I love animals. When it comes time to put an animal down, I would rather not have to do it. But I have to follow the law, and the truth is, some of these species are wildly overpopulated. In the end, most people understand—particularly the ones who've had their children scared by an animal or their attics ripped apart. We go from Bambi killer to the ultimate superhero when something happens in somebody's house."

* * *

The baby skunks are cute, adorable even. Stinky. Three huddle in one cage. A fourth prowls in a second. The three are mellow. The fourth is pissed. It is a serene day. A bright, hot sun bakes the golf course. Carts come and go, the golfers oblivious to the delicate operation happening just a couple of hundred feet away. The owners of the house are out. All they know is that when they return, the skunks will be gone. They've left a check just inside the storm door.

In the shadow of a tidy two-story house, Wilberschied works to secure the traps. Sweat has begun to darken his do-rag as he carefully lifts one skunk cage and tilts it on its side. He moves with grace and finesse, wrapping the long rectangular wire trap in first one trash bag, then a second. Gently, ever so gently, he seals them both. The critters, as required, will be put down, in this case with a combination of carbon monoxide gas and nighty-night, then loaded into the back of Wilberschied's truck. A trap will be left behind for the mother.

Bagging the second trap, however, is not so easy. The lone skunk is clearly about to pull the pin. When Wilberschied calls me over, I think back to his golf course story, the habanero sting to the eyes. And I wonder if I'm about to have my very own "You are so screwed" moment. Still, I don't want to look like a wuss in front of the Critter Hunter, so I peer into the abyss of the cage and catch sight of the small, angry butt. For a moment, I feel a pang of sympathy. Poor wittle thing. But then Pepe begins to stamp his feet. I catch a whiff from what I realize is a warning volley. The abyss is staring back. I brace for the gas when Wilberschied steps in. Swiftly, assuredly, he slips one bag over the trap, then a second. I'm feeling a little bad for the critter, but I feel something else, far more deeply: gratitude.  

Photography: Ryan Robinson

This article appears in the September 2008 issue of Chicago Magazine.

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