Somebody in my family (I won’t name names, but I’ll call him “Dad”) has a real thing for encouraging and fostering wildlife. So much so, that our other nickname for “Dad” is “St. Francis of Assisi.” (This is not what my Mother usually calls him when he does these things, but that’s another story).

What this means is that anyone visiting the family home feels like they’ve just walked onto the set of a National Geographic special. This is because we have no less than nine different feeders and about five houses, not to mention all the various bushes, flower patches, trees, gardens and other assorted habitats.

All of this would make the perfect setting for a writer, except for one problem: the wildlife is starting to get, well, pushy.

Take, for example, our little gang of squirrels. Not content with eating any one of the 3,000 pine cones that fall out of the trees on a daily basis, the little thugs have developed quite a racket.

First, there’s Rocky “Mission Impossible” TheSquirrel who has learned how to strip all four cobs of corn off the ‘squirrel twirler’ in 25 minutes or less by hanging upside like a furry Tom Cruise. Then there’s Scarface Capone, last year’s embattled veteran, who figured out how to send the bird feeder in the tree crashing to the ground. His partner-in-crime is Nutsy MacPherson, who must be Scottish, because to dump out the seed, he heaves up one end of the feeder like he’s tossing a caber.

Yet another squirrel (we don’t know who, yet - because they may be rodents, but they never rat each other out), has stormed the front porch and chewed a hole in the plastic feed bin. This one mustn’t be a ‘made’ squirrel though: the little wise guy hasn’t made the hole quite big enough, and he keeps getting caught with his little squirrel butt hanging out the bin.

Their leader? Don Squirrelione, of course. I figure he must be a Soprano, because when he told me he was going to “make me an offer I couldn’t refuse” he had a really high, squeaky voice.

The squirrels don’t work alone. They’ve hired Chip “Baby Face” Munk, and his brother Thelonious to steal seeds. Pretty Boy Floyd, the oriole from Baltimore, is the lookout. The racoons, with their little black face masks, do the night burglaries. They hire the doves for mourning duty when they lose one of their own.

And the local muscle? Two hummingbirds, Bonnie and Clyde. You laugh, but ask anyone who’s ever put out hummingbird feeders - they are the single most aggressive species on the planet. I now firmly believe the birds-are-descended-from-dinosaurs theory: hummingbirds are just miniature pterodactyls.

Do I have witnesses for these crimes? Not really. The possum just plays dead. None of the birds are stool pigeons. Pepe? He’s usually drunk as a skunk, or else raising a big stink about something else. Louise is just a snake in the grass who can’t be trusted. As for the rabbits, they spend most of their time breeding like... well, you know.

Things got worse last Friday, when “Dad” brought home someone I’ll call “Petunia” (names changed to protect the innocent). The poor deer had been orphaned; we can only assume her mother had been rubbed out by a rival squirrel gang; perhaps she knew too much. Cute as a bug’s ear this one - we were soon fawning all over her.

But we couldn’t keep her: as everyone knows, nothing runs like a deer, and there’s too much traffic nearby. So we smuggled her to a safehouse in the country, where some friends of ours prepared her for a new life. This morning, under cover of broad daylight, me and our deer friend took a truck ride to a witness protection plan centre, which uses a wildlife refuge as a front. The upside of the story? Petunia has a new friend, an even younger orphan I’ll call “Nobby” (she was all knees.) The downside? I now smell distinctly of Eau De Bambi - deer get nervous in trucks. Anyone who met me this afternoon sniffed, and said: “Oh deer me.”

So the next time anyone tells you they plan to retire to the country to write in peace and quiet, tell them from me:

Getting anything done around here is like pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

Just like you, I lie awake at night and worry about life’s bigger questions, like: how quickly does chocolate spoil? Should I eat that piece of cake before morning? And then: Which is best at 3 a.m., whipped cream or ice cream?

Of course, I’m not always that deep. Sometimes I wonder: Just what exactly are The Authorities (who insist on the capital letters because it makes them feel important) doing to protect me from things like crime, terror, and boy bands?

To answer this question, I decided to do a little research. I discovered that Authorities around the world are spending your tax dollars like there’s no tomorrow, which would be a worrisome thought if it weren’t for the fact that the money is being spent to develop amazing new crime fighting tools. For example:

THE TOOL: The US Marines recently paid inventors to develop a special “snot-like” spray-on slime which can be applied to any surface, making it impossible to walk. Honestly, they did.

WHERE IT COULD BE USED: On the grass at the site of a riot to stop a mob advance. On the floor at a robbery-in-progress to prevent a getaway. On the deck of a ship for a really good practical joke on the new recruits.

WHAT IT MEANS: A) Training manuals titled: USMC Approved Snot Spray Skills and Safety. B) Victims suing the government for damages and the inevitable newspaper headline: Protestor Says: “I’ve been slimed!” C) Smug riot police, post-conflict, saying: “Ha! Scared the snot out of them, didn’t we?” D) Judges denying snot-related lawsuits, telling complainants: “If you can’t do the slime, don’t do the crime.”

THE TOOL: Researchers in Sweden have figured out how to make frog skin cells - which naturally change colour in reaction to heat, sunlight or predators - change in the presence of opiate drugs. Again, I’m not kidding.

WHERE IT COULD BE USED: Anywhere a portable, yet spring-loaded drug detector is needed. At a frat party, because you just know some college student will have heard that dumb story about licking a frog to get high, and will figure this is like, totally the right frog, dude.

WHAT IT MEANS: A) The new movie - Kermit: My Life as a Narc. B) Drug cops packing amphibians will have to be renamed frogmen. C) Some day there will be an unfortunate incident involved a drug-sniffing dog and a drug-detecting frog. D) Frogs exposed to too much heroin will croak.

THE TOOL: Forensic scientists in Britain have found a way to trap criminals by their breath. Apparently, traces of DNA can be found in moisture left on phones, masks etc.

WHERE IT COULD BE USED: Anywhere that hardened, experienced criminals stop to use the phone in the middle of a crime, or decide to take off their mask and leave it at the scene.

WHAT THIS MEANS: A) A whole new twist on the phrase “with bated breath.” B) Cops surrounding a suspect’s house and yelling through the bullhorn: “We know you’re in there, we’ve seen where you’ve been breathing!” C) Heist movies where the heroes have to cut the bank’s phone lines, carefully avoid the laser beam alarm triggers, blow open the safe, and gently substitute a weight in place of the large diamond they’re stealing... all while they’re holding their breath. D) Actors turning blue and hyperventilating as a result of having to retake heist movie scenes too many times.

THE TOOL: Back in the US, the Pentagon has announced that it has trained honey bees to sniff out and swarm to explosives instead of flowers. Eventually, they plan to place tiny tracking devices on the bees to be able to follow them.

WHERE IT COULD BE USED: Minefields. And anywhere a hive full of angry, bomb-detecting, buzzing bees could be placed inconspicuously. Like, say, right next to the airport metal detector.

WHAT THIS MEANS: A) On at least one occasion, bees will swarm their target just a little too enthusiastically, and we will suddenly have a lot of bee bits floating through the air. B) One day, someone will be swarmed at the airport and will fall down screaming: “I said bee balm! Bee b-a-l-m!!” C) There will be an unfortunate incident involving a bomb-detecting bee, a drug-detecting frog, and a drug-sniffing dog. D) Somewhere, there is a Pentagon scientist who just spent the last six months, saying: “There’s a good bee! Fetch the TNT. Good bee! That’a boy!”

So, now that I’ve put your mind at ease about world security issues, you can start contemplating some of those really important questions again. Like: how long will a chocolate bar stay fresh? If you’ll excuse me, I have one in my kitchen and I need to run a few tests.

Earlier this week, I left my computer unattended for nearly 24 hours. When I later logged into my email account, I expected to hear that annoyingly cheerful guy say: “You’ve got mail!” What he actually said is: “You’ve got 2,309 emails. Don’t you ever clean out your inbox?”

Okay, so 2,309 is a bit of an exaggeration. In truth, it was only 2,308. And if you’ve been an Internet user for more than, say, five minutes, I’m sure you can guess what 95% of it was: spam. Junk mail. Emails that need to be sorted directly into the ebucket. Tell me if you recognize any of these:

WILD SEXY [FILL IN THE BLANK]: If you’re not an adult when you open your email box, you will be by the time you close it. So far this week, I’ve been offered a peek at straight sex, lesbian sex, gay sex, and yes, even goat sex.

BANNED CD! BANNED CD! No less than 22 people offered me a CD full of things my government doesn’t want me to know. Since I live in Canada, the only thing my government doesn’t want me to know is the secret recipe for maple syrup.

URGENT BUSINESS PROPOSAL: Hello, I am Mbhumbo Jhumbo (claiming to be from Nigeria/Uganda/Congo). My (father/brother) was (chieftain/king/grand poobah) until (evil doer took him out with military coup/machete/knitting needle). He bequeathed to me (a unbelievably large amount of money that amazingly is never in an African currency) but I cannot access it. I am asking you (and 5000 of your closest friends) in confidence to help me out - I need an account overseas. If I can transfer this amount into your account (even though I have no access to this money), I will be willing to give you 20%. I need this quickly, I have no money left for food or shelter (but can pay for a computer, email list and Internet account). Send me your account access information. Oh, and if you act now, I will also throw in the Brooklyn Bridge for just $19.99.

LEGITIMATE, HONEST BUSINESS: Any email that starts out by insisting that it is both legitimate and honest is almost certainly not.

[FILL IN THE BLANK] ENLARGEMENT! Sadly, these emails only ever offer to enlarge the bits that I don’t own.

LEGAL CABLE TV DESCRAMBLING: Strangely, I already have this product. Up north, we call it a cable tv subscription.

BILL GATES EMAIL TRACKING PROGRAM: Because Bill Gates clearly got to be a bazillionaire by giving money to complete strangers just because they forwarded an email to all 1700 of their online friends.

VIRUS INFECTION: I am sorry about this but I appear to have been infected by a virus and I think I may have spread it to everyone in my address book. Check your hard drive! If you have a file called windows.exe, delete it quick! It is the virus file. Don’t be surprised if you cannot restart your computer or if tech support laughs when you call.

WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT ME: One of 3400 variations of that questionnaire that teenagers forward to learn deep, meaningful things about each other like: Do u think Lance Bass iz cuter than Justin Timberlake? or Are u, like, into Coke, or Pepsee?

PARTY HORROR STORY: I am forwarding this as a warning to all party people. Do not leave your drink unattended! I just read a news story about someone who had been slipped drugs in his drink. He fell unconscious and woke up the next morning in a tub of ice water, missing a kidney! He had also lost a heart valve, several gall stones and a big toe. Astonishingly, he did not die of hypothermia after being in ice water for 8+ hours! But he could have, so beware!

STOP GOAT SEXPLOITATION: Because goats just aren’t getting paid enough for that sort of thing, darnit.

So, I don’t know about you, but on an average day, I receive 95 junk emails. This works out to 34,765 spam per year. If it takes me two seconds to delete one, then I spend 19 hours a year just deleting email.

Hmm.

Multiply that by what I think my hourly wage should be ($872/hr)... Hey! Somebody owes me $16,000 in lost productivity!

I think I’ll talk to my lawyer. That way, the next time I log onto my account, Mr. Happy Email guy will say “Your check is in the mail!”

And in other news today, authorities have issued this travel advisory to North Americans planning to visit Europe in June: Don’t bother.

This follows yesterday’s announcement about traveling to South America in June, which was: Consider rescheduling. These are, of course, very similar to advisories issued last week, which were: “Africa? Never mind” and “Australia? Try ya later, mate.”

In case you didn’t know (and if you didn’t, you must work for either the FBI or CIA), June 2002 is World Cup month. All over the globe, shops are closed, streets are deserted, and houses are locked up. Everyone is down at the local watering hole, watching football.

Until recently, World Cup was not a big deal in this part of the globe. This is because Americans were confused by several key facets of the tournament, like the part that says: World.

Indeed, several US residents have written to the official tournament website to ask why they can’t find Minnesota, Nebraska and Florida in the team standings.

Canadians, meanwhile, have a hard time understanding any sport which doesn’t involve ice, skate blades, large sticks and the involuntary donation of blood. The thermometer also confuses us: we can’t figure out how anyone can play a game outdoors in temperatures above 5 C and not expire from heat stroke.

But in the past decade, North Americans have begun to pay more attention to World Cup. This is because we’ve learned about the great benefits of international competitions, like A) a chance to learn how to say “Up Yours!” in 28 languages and B) a chance to compare everyone else’s national beer to a certain bodily fluid.

Okay, I joke, but I really do like to see international tournaments. I like the fact that it gives fans a chance to learn about different cultures, and to meet people from a different country. Take, for example, the Japanese, co-hosts of this year’s Cup.

The Japanese tend to be a very restrained, well-behaved, quiet, and somewhat insular people. Their word for foreigner is “gaijin,” which, roughly translated, means: “probably has cooties.” And who have they invited into their country? The English football fan.

So far, things have gone remarkably well, and I hope it stays that way. Otherwise, the new Japanese word for foreigner will be “hooli-gan,” meaning: “Definitely has cooties. And their beer tastes like it is kusatta.”

Aside from cultural exchanges, international tournaments provide a way to let off national steam. Argentina can regard every match it has versus the Brits as the “Falklands War, Part II” without actually having to fire guns. Senegal can kick their former colonial masters, the French, in their respective, ahem, world cups.

And Mexico can duke it out with Spain for the rights to sing the international football anthem. (This song begins with “Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!” and ends with “Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!” The bit in the middle is the part where they go: Gooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaallll!”) In fact, until we all learn to be rational, logical beings like Star Trek’s Mr. Spock, national competitions are like the Vulcan Pon farr: a safe way to deal with blood lust every few years.

It’s not all about conflict though, and here I speak from personal experience. Note to all single women: if you want to meet men, get thee to an Irish pub during World Cup. The Irish live and die with every run at the goal posts. If the Irish score a point, yer man will be looking to hug someone ecstatically, and better a woman than giving one of his mates the wrong idea. If the other team scores, yer man will be looking to cry on a shoulder. Either way, you’ll be very popular amongst the lads. Plus, they’re very patient when explaining why no one is ever penalized for icing in football.

So, in the spirit of the World Cup, let’s keep the ball rolling, eh?

They arrived last month.

Evil, seductive things that they are, they started showing up in my
mailbox, unbidden, but promising miraculous results and weeks, nay,
months of gratification. And I am powerless to resist.

I'm talking, of course, about flower catalogues.

Spring is finally here in the northern hemisphere, and that means
every nursery from here to Guadalupe wants to lead me down the garden path. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing, except that I'm a lousy
gardener. Never mind having green thumbs, I'm all thumbs when it
comes to flowers, bushes, and even vines. It's true what you've
heard - I'll never make the ivy league.

I start out with the best of intentions. I look over all the
catalogues, looking at every gorgeous full-colour photograph at least
twice. I get silly about shastas and I fantasize about phlox. Then I
open my wallet, make a ridiculously large order and from there, well,
my plans all go to seed.

The first time around, for example, I ordered several trays of
annuals from a German-owned greenhouse in a nearby city. I also
bought a load of topsoil, figuring that the garden dirt looked pretty
depleted. After two days of planting, I had a magnificent garden.
Until it rained. At that point I realized my topsoil order also came
with approximately 6,756 crabgrass and dandelion seeds. The little
plants struggled valiantly, but in the end I had to bid them auf
Weedersehen.

My second time out, I decided to try perennial flowers like dahlias
and daffodils. That was the year it hailed, and the lilies, being dim
bulbs, didn't have sense enough to lean out of harm's way. With the
mixed glads looking very sad, and the rest of the garden looking like
so much mulch, the dandelions moved back in. In fact, the tulip
section got so bad that a smart alec neighbour posted a sign there
that read: Weed my `lips.

I considered planting wild flowers this year, but I'm not sure that
even they would be tough enough for a rumble with that rough bull
thistle gang that moved in last fall. Besides, I'm sure the people
across the road would vetch about the late night ruckus - I've heard
those purple coneflowers can throw one heck of a garden party.

I even thought about doing the trendy thing and installing one of
those elaborate ponds. However, with my luck, I know that one of the
following would happen: A) The store clerk would sell me coy fish
instead of Koi fish, and I'd never be able to find them in the pond,
B) I'd find the neighbourhood dogs doing paddle laps around the water
lilies or C) the heron that lives at the nearby creek would take one
look at the pond and think: Sushi bar!

With that in mind, I figure I might hedge my bets this year and plant
some really tough flora. None of those prim roses, bleeding hearts or
pansies this year, no sir. I'm thinking of something with some real
flower power, like a mean dogwood or a snapdragon. Or perhaps one of
those shady characters called white edged hostas - so it could
say `hosta la vista, baby' to the weeds, and mean it.

Or maybe I'd be better off taking the sage advice of a frond, erm, I
mean friend: pave over the garden. I suppose with a few strategically
placed garden gnomes and a pair of rose coloured glasses, it might
make a credible substitute Eden.

Until the next time the catalogues arrive of course, at which point
I'll be green with envy all over again.