I absolutely adore country life.

Never a city gal (beyond occasional – very brief – imaginings), I grew up and was generally quite content in smallish towns. Unlike a Connecticut classmate, I always knew what existed between one town and the next. Still, rural was as foreign to me as Gramercy Park.

Till I moved.

Friends regale me now with their tales of coyote and fox families and the bear who lives not too far into the woods. I hear the coyotes often, had a shepherd’s crook bent double by a marauding bear (but only once) and would find a rare sighting of a fox worth sharing.

Early in my life here I nightly fed a raccoon and its ‘possum cousin to the amusement (and, unquestionably, also amazement) of frequent house guests. A nighttime battle royal brought that adventure to a rapid end.

Since, acknowledging that the wild animals were here before me, I have been content to live and let live. The dogs usually keep the deer away (their occasional chase is quite benign) and I do find them lovely at a distance. I feed the birds, relish their songs and otherwise enjoy the quiet.

It was all peace – or so I thought – until the raccoons arrived this summer.

Please don’t misunderstand. Raccoons are darling little animals. Curious. Unquestionably intelligent, more nimble than I, and only eager for a “free” handout. Happy, that is, to co-exist in peace.

Or so I imagined.

The first casualty was my window box. Lovingly planted with begonias – so much nicer I’ve found than geraniums for, once planted, they continue to flower nonstop, sharing their bright colors for my pleasure and joy. Never had I envisioned a problem with the window box.

Only trouble was it’s set immediately below the peanut feeder for the jays. One morning I found it on the ground – all the plants knocked out and askew with the peanuts not surprisingly gone.

I rearranged and repotted (it hardly looks as neat as it had but continues to brighten the days) and now remember to be certain the feeder is empty before bedtime. The jays do a good job of seeing to that with the dogs always eager to help should there be any leftovers.

Replacing the bear-destroyed shepherd’s crook, I did think feeders hanging from that would be safe.

Think again. I look at the photograph and can’t imagine how they got both the suet holder and my large (and heavy) birdseed feeder to the ground. There must have been a number of them working together. I regret not seeing that act. Talk about a circus!

A repeat bear visit? An easier reach certainly, but I don’t give a bear credit for neatly opening the suet box or unscrewing the lid to the feeder. Much too neat a trick, in my opinion, for a large, relatively clumsy, animal.

Time for the huge (folks, it’s gigantic) Havahart. (Well, certainly a lot bigger than my small – mouse-size – or medium, for the squirrels and chipmunks.)

And how well it worked! In what seemed like no time at all three raccoons were caught and transported far, far away (or so I was promised). I was doing such a good job in fact that the animal control expert suggested I start a running tab. (Isn’t it interesting that my spellcheck won’t acknowledge the possibility of more than a single raccoon?)

Three juveniles (last year’s babes) off and gone. I was feeling pretty smug about it all: no more raccoons and also at my abilities as a trapper.

I didn’t know the ordeal was just beginning.

Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. Her Reason for Being was published in 2008 with Love in Three Acts following in 2014. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.