Those of you who live in or near the woods know this story by heart.

It began the other morning, as I got up at the usual time, swallowed my pills, washed my face, and wandered downstairs. Peeking out the front window, I saw a stranger standing in the garden. It was dark and I couldn’t quite make it out. So I opened the front door and stuck my head out.

The stranger heard the noise, turned its head, and stared back at me. It was Bambi or one of his/her relatives. Standing in my bride’s shade garden next to the garage was a doe, a deer, a female deer.

There was a sort of smile on her face as she flapped her big ears and dropped her head and gobbled the top off one of my bride's favorite hostas. I greeted her with a few words I learned a long time ago when I lived with 40 others in a Quonset hut at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. That got Bambi’s attention and she looked up at me again, wagged her ears, and ambled into the woods.

I guess she had finished her breakfast, by the looks of the hosta garden. As the seasons transitioned from summer to fall, it seems the forest critters, the ones who have left us alone (for the most part) since we built this little grey house on a hill, have changed their mind.

A black critter with a white stripe down the middle of his back has been digging in the yard, both front and back, looking for grubs. Every other day, I go out to fold the turf back over the holes, sort of like fixing a divot on the golf course. I suppose I should do something about the black and white critter, but something tells me I might want to leave it alone. So I let it dig and keep covering the holes.

A week or so ago, I was pushing the lawnmower over what I laughingly call grass when I was attacked. A swarm of buzzing bees, wasps, or yellow jackets flew out of a hole in the ground and they made a beeline (sorry) for my bare legs and ears. After trying to swat them, it was evident I was trespassing on a hive of the critters that had taken up residence in the hill not far from the outlet of the septic tank. I departed – stage right – and sought help.

The helpful folks at Grover’s great hardware store suggested I buy something in a black spray can that would take care of them. I love Grover’s. It is one of the places where you can still buy nails by the pound and ask the clerks for advice and get it. Unlike the big box stores, where you need a search party to find a clerk, they will greet you by name and smile.

Grover’s Gary suggested I squirt the pseudo agent orange into the hole at night when the buzzing critters were asleep, or I would be sorry. That sounded like sage advice. But as I returned to the house, with the black poison in hand, I noticed the buzzing things were flitting out of the hole in the ground, dive-bombing into the banner crop of goldenrod. Then they would dash back to the hole and swoop inside. So I left them alone.

But the next day or so, I noticed someone or something else did not. The small opening in the hill next to the septic tank outlet had grown. It was a bit deeper and a lot wider. It looked like I could stuff a gallon milk jug in it. But the bees that lived in the hole were still buzzing up and round the opening as they made their way to the goldenrod and back.

Interesting, I said to myself and decided to leave them alone for the time being. A week later, the hole looked like someone had taken a post-hole digger to it. It was round and deep. Whoever, or whatever, had scooped the dirt out and shoved a handful of pebbles and rocks down the hill. The work showed me the digger was serious. I thought he was probably after something to eat. And that something was the buzzing stinging flying critters who left welts on my right ear and left calf.

If the digger was willing to ignore the buzzing, stinging bee-like creatures, he had earned my respect. So, I decided to leave him alone and wait for a time before I raked the dirt back into the hole.

Unless, of course, he attacks my bride’s hosta garden. And that is another story for another time.