Critters for Company

A girlfriend once introduced me to the family frog. Fred, whose shocking size nears the circumference of a lunch plate, has refused to leave her property and has taken up residence in the chemical waters of the backyard pool. For his health and safety, Fred has been encouraged to leave many times. He has been carried down the long drive way to the ditch, dropped gently over the fence, and practically bussed to another state. However, Fred has always returned. My friend struck a truce with this frog and now he claims the pool at night while the kids enjoy the pool during the day.

Seemingly, we all have our special creatures—the ones that adopt us, that is. Last year, we enjoyed Portia, the little yard rabbit. Once timid, she became bolder with age and maturity. I would see her closer to the back deck and had direct evidence that she visited our house bunny for a while. This year, I have yet to see her. One of her kin was in the front yard this week though. We spotted her during an early morning attempt to soothe my son’s croupy cough with the pre-dawn air.

We still have Charlie, a grey cat that escorts neighborhood children to and from the bus stop most days of the week. He will also join my family for walks with the dog—at a safe distance, of course. Periodically, I will open my front door and there is Charlie sitting and waiting. “You have this house confused with yours,” I tell him, but two hours later, a peek out the windows shows that Charlie insists that, at least temporarily, he plans to nap here.

This week, we had a newer visitor. Cheetah is one of those swirled inky kitties that one sees on Meowmix commercials. Having been inspired by Charlie, as he has socialized many of the neighborhood cats, she too will escort the children of her feeder’s family to and from the bus stop, even in the rain. Coming home from my son’s school Monday, Cheetah scampered across the street to greet us, rolled around between my feet for a while, and entertained my son. (He would love a cat of his own, but I tell him no and that I have enough mouths to feed.)

Years ago, my mother had squirrels—a love-hate relationship, really, as they would yell at her about having been kicked out of the attic by the painter she hired. She had all kinds of amusing antics to report about them, including the time that a squirrel was so angry with her that he buried a stick (end pointing up) in the yard. And among the other pesky visitors we’ve had have been rats. My first husband was so upset about Ned, who moved into our first home and took up residence in the backside of our gas stove, that I was left to set the trap and kill the little beast. The day I succeeded was both triumphant and awful.  Years later in another home, we had a rat that used to horde my dog’s food. One day, I opened the door to the garage and there he was, sportily jaunting from the dog food bowl to his hole in the wall with a large chunk of kibble in his mouth. He stopped, paused, practically waved hello, and then continued without panic on his happy trot across the floor. I tried, but never could trap him.

I know of a wild burro and horse who happily adopted the humans that lived next door to them.  I have heard stories about deer and moose who have insisted on visiting across fences like old friends.  Really, these visitors are some of the best to have—so long as they poop outside and don’t chew holes in your walls.

Bandaids and Fables

Sometimes, when a child gets a boo boo, the ouchie moment turns into sweetness as an extra opportunity to nurture and soothe.


This morning, before school, my daughter tripped on the concrete walk that runs through the backyard. She came down so hard that her feet flew up behind her. I anticipate her having a back ache from this, but at least she did not hit her head. I escorted her gently back into the house to find that both hands (one in particular) and both knees were sufficiently torn and bleeding. Eight bandaids later, she went cheerfully to school talking about the story I had told her while cleaning her wounds. At age 10, a good story will still distract her enough from pain to stop crying.

You see, the whole thing is really the fault of the chipmunks. There is a pair of them that sometimes play chase in the morning, and one of them was not looking at all where he was running. He bolted right into my daughter’s path. In one horrible split second, she made a life-altering choice—either continue to step and thus risk pinning the chipmunk by his tail to the sidewalk (and a crushed tail would be devastating to these little critters) or stop short and risk her own fall.

Alas, the girl fell, but the chipmunk was able to dart to safety and watch with great shock and sorrow as his beloved caretaker (she does mind the critters of the garden, at least in spirit) took a nose dive onto the unforgiving concrete path. All the garden held its breath as my daughter’s hands broke her fall. When she rose from all fours, the rabbits and chipmunks poked their noses in her direction and whispered well-wishes into her ears. Even the birds sung songs of encouragement, but I think our darling was too surprised and hurt to notice.

When I was little, my father told me stories, too. And now that I have children, my mother tells my daughter stories. I love that the tradition is being passed to my children. I hope with it comes the remembrance of the sweeter things: tenderness exchanged over scraped knees and a time when childhood still could be magical.

News from the Gardens

Watching the wildlife around here is a bit like watching neighbors in Rear Window, or Melrose Place. This week, we have had dramatic developments.


Herbert has left Frances. Now the little mourning dove pecks alone through the front yard. I suspect that Herbert may have run off with Chuck the squirrel… apparently, they may have had that type of relationship. What a shock this must be to Frances!

All kinds of new relationships have formed in the backyard, including one between a pair of cardinals. The female peeps and tweets ceaselessly as she jets from bush to ground and back again, just behind her male counterpart. He never says a thing. I wonder if he has read The Diaries of Adam and Eve by Mark Twain because he just ignores her and continues on his way. In fact, I think I have even seen him roll his eyes.

Two robins take a much more active route in the backyard. They swirl and dip together following one another from various perches in trees, on the deck, over by the fence, and so forth. They seem to get along quite swimmingly, in fact. They are the contented lovers of Malvern Gardens.

The squirrels are hysterical. Take the 3 stooges and multiply by two, because they often run in packs that size, and their comedy is just as large. This week I had one in the plum tree, his pooching white belly toward me as he hurled unripe plums to the ground just for sport, while his friends swung (literally like circus acrobat teams) from branch to branch of adjacent trees. A few days ago, in the yard of a neighbor, one squirrel had been playing with a stick and tried to plant it upright in the ground. After discovering that it was too tall for the hole he dug, he began to chew the stick into two. It was a little thicker than he would have desired for quick results, so he started to roll around with it. In his fervor, he rolled straight out of the yard, over the retaining wall, and hit the sidewalk with a stunned smack. This did not deter him at all. He leapt back up into the yard, carried the stick with him, and worked it over for good measure, then gave it to a friend who then tried the same. He even sat there and supervised! Soon the two squirrels were practically cartwheeling about the grass with the stick. Eventually, the charm of the game wore off and the two squirrels, along with about four other friends that had been pillaging the garden beds, scampered up trees.

Chipmunks are as plentiful as ever. One busied himself with a fallen, ripe plum this very morning. He seemed to understand it was too big to cart away, so he nibbled thoughtfully until he was full, and then skipped to the back of the garden. The chipmunks are the industrious counterparts to all the tomfoolery that takes place. I see them scout, gather, stop, plan, and dig. They never seem to hang out with friends, yet they are everywhere. They ignore the activity of the others unless it is to stop and chirp a warning that I am on the deck. I think the chipmunks have formed a Neighborhood Watch committee.

And we have a new member, a baby rabbit who has made two appearances this week. She did not stir at all when I came across her this morning, but instead ignored me and scarfed down a delicious yellow leaf from her shaded refuge under the fig tree. Surely, she has been approached by the Malvern Rabbit Association for a prospective membership and protection from the local hawk population.

I walked through the garden today and made a note of the burrows and tunnels the quadrupeds have created. I will leave them alone. I don’t need a four-star yard. I prefer that the critters live here and entertain me daily with their antics. I am no longer bothered that the animals raid my fruit trees and leave me nothing. Instead I am amused when I neighbor tells me she has found chewed up plums on her porch, yet she has no plum trees at all. I was thinking about investing in a bird feeder or two, or maybe even a bird bath to enhance the courtyard that the little animals seem to enjoy so much. It would at least give them a new excuse to gather and socialize… maybe even discuss that scandalous Herbert and Chuck.