I Miss The Rats.

All of New York's animal kingdom, really.

They seemed to be, at least for the most part, self-sufficient. There are the apartment mice that don't care for being rained on who will finagle their way indoors -- in one instance, into my closet door -- on less than pleasant days. Of course there are the Madison Square Park squirrels that will literally walk up and tap you on the shoulder, should you happen to be enjoying your Shake Shack burger on an afternoon when they've not yet lunched. And the pigeons. Don't even get me started on the pigeons.

But still, city critters are more or less on their own. I don't go out of my way to step on them or anything, but I don't feel any obligation to look after them.  I certainly don't feel obligated to let one of them live in my closet. 

Here, however, it's a different story. Things just appear furrier and snugglier and more in need of a sympathetic sucker here.

Late last night, I pulled out of my sister's driveway in the lovely burg of Lebanon, and cranked up the country for the 35 minute drive home. I got about 18 seconds into that drive when I had to screech on the brakes to avoid hitting the wild street gang of (I'm guesstimating) eight week old kittens. Smack in the middle of the road. On a very cold night -- we'd just moments ago listened to the local weather buffoon talk about taking care of your plants because of the frost warning. He mentioned nothing about small wayward cats, but weighing in at around an ounce a piece I was guessing they weren't going to fare any better than someone's petunias could.

So I called my sister, who reminded me that she just recently had to get rid of her beloved cat, because of the new baby. So I called my mom, who refused to answer her phone, but I'm guessing would have reminded me that she is already tending to my darling cat, has been for years now, and that asking her to house three more for a night would be, as we say in this neck of the woods, "pushing my luck." But I wasn't leaving them there. No way. Too cute and tiny and shivery; besides, one of them had already climbed up the back of my sweater and burrowed, claws first, into the warmth of my bra strap. I was hooked. (Sorry.)

Into the back of dad's car they went -- more specifically, into Cokie's dog crate. She would not be thrilled or particularly hospitable about it, I knew, but I was more worried about my allergy-ridden stepmother's reaction. Can you bring a litter of kittens home undetected? Not when you walk in the front door and immediately burst into tears, begging for compassion and forgiveness at your weak, animal-loving heart. They got kitten kibbles, some water, and spent a generally cozy night curled up together inside a dog's crate. I only went out to the garage two times to check on them. Okay, three. One per cat.

This morning dad was even kind enough to drive all the way back down to Lebanon with me to drop them off at the Humane Society, where I am certain (or certainly telling myself) that their distraught owners -- probably a pig-tailed and freckle-faced little girl and her gruff-yet-gentle farmer father  -- will come to claim them amidst tears of joy and relief and gratitude.  I bet they even give the little girl a lollipop. Heck, maybe even the farmer.

Home again, smiling happily at the mere thought of the child-kitten reunion about to take place. Just in time for the bunnies.

My parents have an eight year old Welsh Springer Spaniel whom I am sure will make countless future posts, for her overall cuteness and total lack of self control. Her name is Cokie, she is beautiful and smart and certifiably nuts. So much so that there's nothing unusual about her barking madly at the back door, even when there's nothing out there. We'll open the screen, watch her go tearing down the steps and out to the fence, and we'll laugh that she doesn't even seem to have the sense to be embarrassed at creating such a ruckus over something invented in her little dog brain.

Except for when it's real. Like, for instance, a real nest of five baby rabbits. As soon as we saw the mommy shoot across the backyard and Cokie NOT chase her, dad was out there in a flash. Cokie flashed just a bit faster and one of the little day-old runts is happily hopping through bunny heaven. I had to stay inside because the entire massacre was too much to take and, while he didn't come out and say it, I think dad was worried about having to pay my out-of-pocket therapy bills. The squeaking -- oh God, the squeaking -- will haunt me. The survivors got shoveled up and redeposited safely outside the fence, while momma watched from the neighbor's yard. Now I can't get anything done because I'm just staring out the window and waiting for her to come back.

You win some, you lose some in this rough life. But there's never a dull moment out here, protecting the Midwestern landscape from dangerous predators like Honda Pilots and maniacal dogs. It's exhausting. I feel like a pioneer.