The Invader

When I unload the chicken food from my car, I note with irritation that all the bags have rodent chew holes in them.

Next time, I'll have to get out of the car, inspect the bags and load the grain myself.

I'd bought the 50-lb. bags at the local grain drive-thru. Yes, in rural western Ohio, we have a grain drive-thru that operates much like the beer and wine drive-thrus, which we also have. From the comfort of your car or truck, you place your order and watch as an employee loads the grain into your vehicle.

I thought no more of the rodent holes until a few days later when I got into the car and found a chewed Reese's Cup wrapper on the driver's seat. The mouse had also deposited his calling cards.

"Get out the traps. There is a mouse in my car and he likes chocolate!" I emailed my husband who was at work.

When I saw my husband later that evening, I recalled the incident with much hand-shaking and drama.

"I can't believe you'd get upset over a mouse."

In 16 years of living on the farm, I've dealt with a groundhog in the basement, raccoons in the barn, snow in the living room, snow blocking our driveway for days, days without electricity, mice, and, in the early days, rats.

But this mouse is flustering me.

"It's in my car," I say. "It's like finding a mouse in your purse."

I don't carry a purse. I drive a car, stocked with sunscreen, insect repellent, tissues, towels, jackets, rain gear, dog leashes, stock stick, Advil, hand and toe warmers, gloves, tools, water, the occasional snack -- and now, a mouse.

The husband sets a trap. He catches a mouse. He is not convinced there was only one.

Each night, he puts a loaded trap in my car.

Each morning, before opening the car door, I announce my presence. I bang on windows.

I find no more evidence of mouse.

When I get in the car on Saturday morning, snap! I'd forgotten about the mouse trap.

It's going to be some time before I forget about that mouse.

Disturbing the Hunters

The three adult Border collies and I left on our walk at daybreak, when the wind was calm, the sky clear, and frost covering the ground.

We encountered the coyote hunting in the recently harvested soybean.

He looked surprised to see us.

Had he not noticed the time? The lightening sky? Or, did he know in his bones that snow was coming and he needed to eat well?

He trotted toward the woods, then turned and looked at us, deciding whether he wanted to leave his prime hunting spot.

Because we'd just crossed a road, my dogs were on leashes and anxiously awaiting me to release them so that they could hunt the fields for mice.

"Go on, coyote," I said.

Reluctantly he retreated to the woods.

And my three dogs happily ran and chased and hunted until they encountered the raccoon who wisely climbed a tree.

Caeli jumped and whined and jumped some more at the base of the tree.

"That'll do," I said, summoning the dogs to begin walking toward home.

As we walked down the lane, we eyed a pair of red-tailed hawks, circling the hay fields, hunting for mice, perturbed to be giving up their hunting grounds to dogs.

Unlike the night creatures, they'd continue to hunt and screech throughout the day.