I have come to realize in the month since we became "country folk" versus "city folk" (so named by the locals), that people, critters and insects live in a codependency harmony.
Sharing the shower last night with Itsy Bitsy who obviously crawled up the water spout, I paid respect to his powers of tenacity by not immediately screaming and flushing him down the loo. Instead, we both got on with what we there to do; myself to wash off a day's country grime, and his to hang on for dear life and avoid low-flying shampoo suds. I didn't shriek when his eight black legs crept cautiously toward me, I simply hummed the tune from the Great Escape and looked out of the window. (Yes, the bathroom has a window! Wow!) I left him there to his own devices, to feast on the many tiny, and some not so tiny flies that zoom uninvited into the house whenever a door is opened, and land on any food or drink that are left exposed.
Now I heard somewhere, probably from the man that delivers the water, that it is helpful, nay, downright essential to have bats in the garden. Apparently, they love mosquitoes and enjoy nothing more than feasting on those annoying, buzzing, itch-inducing vampires. So, it was with great delight that we said hello to Batty, the night watch-bat who hangs on the wall in the front porch. He arrives at dusk and is gone by morning, but he's there now, watching, and waiting for his stomach to growl, so he can swoop into the night and enjoy breakfast. I noticed this evening that he looks rather like a mouse with his wings all curled tightly at his side, cute, in a macabre sort of way. However, the minute he develops fangs and turns into Christopher Lee, I'll be smelting my silver candlesticks to make a stake.
So that brings me to the real mice. The ones that don't fly, but run out of the fields and into the house when the cool weather starts. In order to prevent this, I'm told by many sources that I need a cat. Well, as if by some telepathic means of request, into our garden arrives a cat on day four. He, or she, not yet sure, stalks through the long grass around the edges of the property, hackles raised and ready to pounce. Cat, is white with black splodges across her back and face. She isn't particularly interested in friendship, which is fine by me, but I'm told we should be good to her because of a probable mouse infestation in the fall. Cat then, will be provided with food in the garage, and an occasional bowl of milk, We're to treat her as a "barn cat" but as we don't have a barn, I'm presuming the garage will do.
As I write this, in the washing-up bowl is a furry yellow caterpillar trying very hard to climb up the slippery slope that has been lined lovingly with dandelion leaves and a drop or two of water by my son.
"George", with his fluffy body and tiny legs, has provided an eight year old with hours of enjoyment today. What is somewhat surprising is that poor old George hasn't died of fright in the hands of my eager, fascinated son.
It does take an adjustment moving from the safety of being one house joined to a row of others to living like a lone wolf surrounded by fields of mice with only the bats for company. But, I was doing fairly well with it. Today, however, I learned from one of my neighbours that I should have a dog. Not just any old dog, but a dog with a very deep voice, to keep away any unwanted prowlers. This is, he assured me the only thing that will deter intruders.
Tomorrow, I will look for the biggest most intimidating dog available to scare away any burglars. One bark from Big Dog will also chase away the cat, allowing the mice to build cosy homes in the walls who in turn will compete with the bat in 'Who Can Make The Most Droppings A Day' competition. There is certainly never a dull moment.
Tomorrow, "Out with the old: a trip to the local waste management site"
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