Cat,Rat, Possom, Coon

Once again, something has taken up residence in the garage. The little dachshund is frantic to find it and show me but so far, his efforts have produced nothing. He eases though the dog door and almost immediately begins a Hallelujah Chorus of barking but by the time I get there with my trusty flashlight, whatever he has seen has taken refuge out of sight and out of reach. We've been here before and I don't doubt him. Some creature - rat, cat, possom, coon – has taken shelter within the ramshackle walls and I suppose it's up to me to make sure it isn't injured or sick or inviting in the entire neighborhood.

The garage is a combination hoarder's heaven and landfill. I've never gotten around to having it properly cleaned out and over the years, it's taken on a life of its own. It's crammed with old carpet and leftover paint cans, plastic bags of clothing I meant to donate, bits of fencing and moldy cardboard boxes, motheaten blankets, empty detergent bottles and assorted trash and debris from the previous owners - in other words, a perfect refuge for whatever stray creatures wander by.

After work, when the light is better, the little dachshund and I and steal stealthily into the chaos to recconnoiter and see what we can find. He is fearless, crawling and climbing through, under, over and around all obstacles into every nook and cranny and hidden place he can find. I am more cautious, exquisitely aware of the unknown and tense with anxiety that something could suddenly fly at me from the shadows. We search for the better part of 10 minutes but come up with nothing. Whatever was there that morning has, apparently, moved on, at least for now. The little dachshund is dispirited but stubborn and it takes several more minutes to convince him to give up the hunt. I am profoundly relieved not to have found a litter of kittens or some ill tempered, unpredictable wild creature with teeth and talons and after another uneventful few days, interest in the garage fades. It's re-ignited on a warm, rainy Sunday morning right after Christmas when I trudge out with a basketful of laundry and am confronted by a surprised and none too friendly, red eyed squirrel. He does not appreciate my intrusion any more than I appreciate his presence and for a few unpleasant moments we are caught in a standoff. Then the little dachshund arrives to save the day - he comes tearing in, barking furiously and ready to take on an army and the squirrel retreats quickly, ducking under the clutter and disappearing behind a row of paint cans. The little dachshund tries to follow but the mountain of debris is more than he can manage. He has to settle for the partial victory of scaring off the intruder and letting loose a stream of verbal abuse, all delivered in true hound fashion, deep and raspy and unmistakenly, unconditionally hostile. When it comes to trespassers, there can be no question of his authority or responsibility. I scoop up all 10 pounds of him, tell him what a good boy he is, and carry him back into the yard. The little Yorkie, who has watched all this from the safe neutrality of the deck - without feeling the need to get involved, I might say - erupts in a flurry of yapping and frantic congratulations and both dogs trot proudly off toward the back fence. Just to be sure that the squirrel isn't planning a comeback, I suppose, or maybe they just need to pee. At any rate, we are all safe and secure for another day.