I loved Disney movies when I was a child: “101 Dalmatians” had all those dogs, “Bambi” all the forest creatures.

I like animals but I don’t like animals where they shouldn’t be, especially animals that burrow near the foundation of my house.

I have become an Elmer Fudd-ian hunter of a family of chipmunks. I thought of trapping the beasts and releasing them but I feared I would keep catching and releasing the same animals like Elmer and Bugs.

The idea of poisoning Chip and Dale’s cousins didn’t seem quite right yet I found myself at the hardware store staring at a shelf of “pest controlling” substances. An older woman walked by me and must have been taken by my confused look.

“Don’t waste your money.”

“Excuse me?”

“Best thing is to chew on some Juicy Fruit gum and stick it down their holes – you have holes in your yard, right?”

“Lots of holes – all near the foundation of the house….they make me nervous.”

“Buy a pack of Juicy Fruit. They can’t resist it, and they can’t digest it.”

“You’re kidding…”

“I don’t kid about foundations. Juicy Fruit: original flavor.”

She narrowed her Clint Eastwood-blue eyes and disappeared around the corner.

I bought a pack of Juicy Fruit.

I chewed a stick for about ten seconds – just enough to bring out the succulent fruitiness - and chucked it down the hole closest to the foundation.  I did this about ten times.

I don’t know about the chipmunks, but I had a terrible stomach ache.
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I was in the kitchen at my parent’s house. Mama was out in the backyard and my dad was reading the paper in the dining room.

Suddenly the back door banged and we heard mama land heavily back on the slammed door.

“Mama! You okay?” I asked as I turned the corner to peer into the back hall. She was bent over, silver hair bobbed in time with her gasps for breath, her panting mixed with her laughter.

My father and his measured steps moved to the back hall.

“Alice? What happened?”

Mama looked up, “There was a squirrel eating from the bird feeder so I thought I would scare it away, so I picked up a little rock,” and she held her crooked arthritic index finger together to her thumb to show us the size of the little rock, “well, I threw it at the squirrel.” And she bent down to catch her breath.

“So?” asked my father, the perfect straight-man.

“So? So, I hit that squirrel right between the eyes! And he reared up on his hind legs and he CHARGED at me!” and she made a scampering motion with her hands, “I haven’t moved that fast in years.”

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I was walking my dog when I saw a squirrel standing on his hindquarters, the white fur of his belly hairs puffed out like a waistcoat. It was absolutely adorable and I happily thought of how Beatrix Potter dressed her animals so perfectly, Mrs. Tittlemouse, Peter Rabbit, Jemima Puddle Duck…

My dog crouched to pounce and I knew if I didn’t come out of my reverie I would have a dislocated shoulder and a dead, undressed squirrel at my feet.

My dog could care less if the critters are wearing a bonnet or not, she just wants to kill them. If she were a Jack Russel terrier or a more swaggering-type dog, it wouldn’t bother me, but she is a refined Standard Poodle. I know the poodle is a hunting dog, a water retriever, but it shocks me when I look at my mild dog and realize she has blood lust.

Her dainty looks mask her shocking number of kills: one squirrel, two chipmunks, several bunnies, a bird, and many house flies.

I guess books aren’t the only things that shouldn’t be judged by their cover.
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Birkie Billings was my sister’s Jack Russell Terrier; he had personality to spare and a Jimmy Cagney briskness to his walk.

Birkie was a well-travelled dog and my father theorized that it was my sister’s moving about that changed the dear little fellow’s upbeat personality. My father described Birkie as “upbeat” we thought “aggressive” was more accurate.

My parents adopted Birkie so he wouldn’t have to move about, and soon after they adopted the custom of wearing brown cotton work gloves. This was more out of self-preservation than out of fashion or for warmth, as Birkie would bite them whenever they put him on his leash.

My parents never blamed Birkie, the poor little dog, they adored him and fed him treats and encouraged him to bark at the less-then-well-intentioned neighborhood children.

One afternoon my phone rang: Birkie had run away, last seen he was heading toward my house. I ran out of the house and started to look for the little darling.

Then, I heard children screaming. All stealth, I approached the yard that belonged to the twins who delighted in tormenting Birkie by standing just over the boundary of his electric fence and throwing things at him.

I peered around a huge rhododendron and saw that he had the twins and their ten-year-old sister trapped on their back patio. There was screeching without pause.

Birkie had gathered the sand toys, balls, dolls’ heads, and baseball gloves and had put them in a pile. I watched as his gaze swept over the backyard. I held my breath. His eyes stopped at a sun visor, half-buried in leaves and he trotted over to it, growling as he passed the terrified trio on the patio.

All business, he released the visor and let it fell on the pile. Then, the wind betrayed me, Birkie’s head snapped in my direction. I moved.

“Come on, Birkie, let’s go home.”
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His mouth opened in a wide-smile, he seemed to nod. He lifted his back leg and relieved himself on the sun visor. He hopped; three-legged around the items he had collected sprinkling each one of them with his urine, giving a final shake over the second baseball glove.
His work done, he scampered past me and headed home.
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This is a short tale of habit: We had just come back to college after January term. I was sitting at a long wooden dining hall table when an upper-class woman sat down next to me.

“How was your Jan term?” she asked me as she put her tray down.

“Pretty decent....” I started to answer. I stopped because as this woman’s mind was listening to me, her eyes had spotted a kernel of corn under the edge of her tray. She neatly picked the kernel up and popped it in her mouth; she nodded at me to continue.

I stared.

“Oh! Oh! I can’t believe I just did that!” She gagged. “That’s something I’d do at home!”

“We just got back…” I offered, my lips shrunk together in empathy and disgust. I added, “If it makes you feel any better, Val was sitting there and she’s pretty clean.”

My comment was unheard. The upper-class woman had run off to get some hot tea. Disinfecting, you know.

When I lived in Spain I missed an odd variety of foods: corn on the cob, cottage cheese (really), Three Musketeers bars…My boyfriend knew how much I liked corn and he brought me back a half dozen ears after he visited his family in Galicia.

The gesture was great, and the ears of corn were beautiful – Monsanto couldn’t dream up anything that bright, that golden, and that succulent-looking. Each ear was about as big as my forearm; drool pooled in my mouth.

“I’ll boil this corn right up!”

“It’s only 11:30 in the morning….” my boyfriend protested.

“I’m eating this at American lunch-time. It’s exquisite!”

My boyfriend shook his head, he knew me well enough to question my questionable eating habits.

“How long does that take to cook?”

“I don’t know, about twenty minutes….” I was transfixed by the perfectly shaped kernels under the boiling water. I stepped closer.

“Don’t get burned…”

I hate obvious corrections.

“Steam is good for the skin.” And I piggishly stood my ground.

Twenty minutes passed and I greedily pulled an ear of corn out of the water. I blew on it so I could bite in without burning my mouth; I placed my teeth around the generous curve of the cob and bit down. I tried to bite down but my teeth didn’t even dent the corn.

“Needs a few more minutes….” I reasoned. I let the corn boil another ten minutes. The kernels still resisted.

“Longer…?” questioned my boyfriend.

“Another twenty, maybe.” I decided.

My boyfriend fell asleep. I watched the pot of corn. Twenty more minutes passed. Titanium kernels. Twenty more minutes on top of that - I was flushed from hovering over the steaming pot.

“Hey, hey!” I called to my boyfriend “Where did you get this corn anyways?”

“That corn? From Pedro…”

“You mean Pedro who has the cows and pigs?”

“Yeah.”

“So, this is animal corn.”

“It’s corn.”
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​I was nervous the first time I had Sunday lunch at my future in-laws in Madrid.  Their flat was immaculate, the food was perfection, they were kindness personified but I knew I was being watched. I wanted to make a good impression so I dressed in what I considered a proper “Spanish uniform”, a sweater, skirt, and flats.

I think everyone was a bit on edge so during lunch we talked about the safest topic: food.
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“What is your favorite food?”

“Corn and potatoes.” I answered without hesitation, “And squash. I really like squash, too.”

My boyfriend put his napkin over his mouth and looked at his mother. She looked at her plate and pushed some food to one side and glanced back to her son, then her eyes moved to her husband, a quiet man, he had ducked his head at an odd angle to hide his smile.

I sensed their attempts at self-suppression.

“Corn, potatoes, and squash – are they funny?” I asked maybe a bit too primly.

My boyfriend’s laugh broke the tension.

“Corn, potatoes, and squash – that’s what pigs are fed!”

So much for being prim and proper.
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