The frogs hunker under stray papers as they would beneath forest-floor litter. Everytime I moved a page I found a scrunched up anxious little frog. Well, twice. One frog was the big fat one, the other was quite small. Same species. Different genders? If I put out a very deep bowl of water, will we have tadpoles?

I scooped each of them up in turn and deposited them in the plant pot with the giant orchid cactus. I do this whenever I find them, but they seem to prefer the even textures of file cabinets and manila envelopes and photo frame glass to dirt and foliage beneath their moist sticky feet. One of them is still in the pot now, though, hours later, ribbeting his or her heart out. The other, the big one, leaped out, sprang wildly around the room, and wedged himself under the big soft chair. (They really are remarkably awkward, given all that springiness, at each hop flinging their feet out at bizarre angles at the ends of surprisingly long legs.)

All their familiar objects are gone. No more family photo frames to perch on. How will they navigate? Where will they live? I contructed a new desk in the same spot, much smaller, from the file cabinets and a hollow-core door. The frogs' water dish awaits them behind the computer monitor. And a couple of moths too by evening, I would imagine.

Then upstairs, out comes the bookshelf. Greta crouched expectantly by. She's been waiting for this for weeks. Sure enough, behind the shelf, in the corner, we found a little cache of my proffered breadcrusts broken down into mouse-manageable bits. Then a space of floor fairly well covered with rodent droppings. Finally—there it is, the nest.

Oh, sweet, a sphere woven of dust bunnies, mammal hair, paper shreds, pocket lint, bits of string. Greta inspects...

Where did the string come from? Most of it is pink.... Hm. I check out my new throw rug. Ah.

I pull the shelf farther forward and reveal the creature himself staring desperately upward into my eyes. It's a deermouse. I suppose we'll all have hanta virus now. Such huge eyes. Where did my buddy the kangaroo rat get to? I don't think to snap a photo, the still moment passes, and then the chase is on. Greta is in heaven; nothing so amuses her as stalking these guys endlessly. She never really wants to catch them, I think. Just to outwit them ... why does this sound familiar ... ?

Anyway, we have transported the shelves and desktop to the shop. Bought our daily pittance of gasoline. Made our way back home. Now we've filled the van with book boxes--the literature/poetry section--for tomorrow's trip in. Tomorrow I'll stay and paint the window trim and moldboards, and perhaps a shelf or two.
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