Man, life is dangerous along our little gravel road these days. Every morning, the squirrels are terrorizing the neighborhood with their nutty shenanigans. They crouch on tree limbs, ammunition in hand, waiting for unsuspecting dufasses, namely me, to walk by. The minute I do, they fire with both barrels, dropping black walnuts and acorns with way too much glee.
If you still don’t believe beautiful September is dangerous around here, just ask our neighbors, the kamikaze toads and frogs. Of course the ones who dash from one side of the road to the other, and end their lives wearing tire tracks and doing a fair imitation of Flat Stanley, can no longer tell you how dangerous it is in these parts. But a stroll down the lane, which ends up being more of a pick-your-way-past-the-corpses and duck-before-the-squirrels-nab-you, provides gruesome proof if you need it.
As for me, I’m donning combat gear until the critters hibernate. Between my broken umbrella that protects me from rodent terrorists and Hiram’s old galoshes that keep froggy Flat Stanleys from slipping into my shoes, I pretty much scare off the wildlife on my daily walks.
Tell you what, the guy who said war is hell knew what he was talking about. But then again, walking four miles in Hiram’s galoshes is no picnic.
How long until October and the first frost?
