We’re spending lockdown defending a family of mice

My first Independence Day in the US for many years. Usually I’d be in Paris avoiding Texas heat. My wife and I are self-isolating with much more square feet and wildlife to enjoy. Our garden is lush and green, full of flowers, owls, hawks, possums, squirrels, skunks, armadillos and snakes. Recent wild fires drove more animals into town. Joyously athletic with the recklessness of youth, squirrels and redbirds chase each other through our oaks and pecans and it’s pretty good to sit on the front porch with a cooling drink and the rich scent of magnolias in the evening air. The young hawks are in heaven. They have discovered our bird feeders. We have become very defensive of our bluejays, cardinals, chickadees, wrens, woodpeckers, mockingbirds and others. We are obsessed with their defence, constantly running outside with supersoakers, hosepipes, cap pistols, clapping and even the occasional angry screech. The hawk knows about the pack rats (actually large mice) who now live in my office walls and attic, coming out for the seed which falls from our feeders. Brown and white, they are clean and cute as tame mice and are expert tree-climbing acrobats, like squirrels. They bound, tiny Tarzans, through the branches of the mock orange which gives shade against our den window. They, too, are part of our family unit, certainly as far as the cats know. They evidently think that once you’ve established a home in our ramshackle old place (it’s almost as old as Texas), you’re a legal immigrant.

Like most people we’ve gone a little barmy recently. A couple of days ago Mrs Mouse was packing her cheeks to take food for her three young. She’d found a quicker way to come and go from the house over an exposed porch.