news-record.com

Two years ago, my wife and I purchased a home on a quiet cul-de-sac in northwest Greensboro. Almost immediately, we knew we had found the right house for us: There is a big, fenced-in yard for our Goldens to romp in, and the property is flanked by several wooded acres not yet torn asunder by incursions of man and machine.

Those defiant woods play host to creatures great and small, many of them flushed out - it's safe to assume - from nearby areas bulldozed and paved over for the sake of "progress." Our modest plot has become a safe haven for critters left destitute by developers and overzealous champions of economic progress.

Because we were annexed into the city a couple of months ago, our little sanctuary may be short-lived. Animal lovers both, my wife and I intend to enjoy it while it lasts. The animals certainly will.

From the large pond behind the house, geese and ducks come waddling down the cul-de-sac in platoons. While the neighbors are chasing the invaders from their pristine lawns, Maureen and I toss them bread. Even as they are devouring our offerings, the elder geese "hiss" their warnings. Presumably they are protecting their young. We understand that, don't we? I also discovered a few years ago that geese, unlike so many humans, mate for life.

Now and then, of course, a creature will show up uninvited. A couple of months ago as I prepared to shower, I noticed the Goldens and one of our (three) cats hovering over the edge of the bathtub, their heads swinging to and fro in unison, as if they were watching a tennis match. A mouse had taken up residence in the tub. Because I am the man of the house, I called out to wifey and asked her to remove the intruder. She did so, humanely, and released the mouse into the woods.

Gray foxes began making nightly appearances in the front yard a while back, and they dine like kings. Moments after twilight, I walk out and toss to them an assortment of peaches, strawberries, watermelon, bananas and bread. We feed at least two foxes nightly, and some nights, as many as five. The Goldens and I huddle in front of my office window and observe. Aspen and Chinook never bark at the foxes; it's almost as if they know these nocturnal visitors are distant relatives.

Not all of nature's creatures are cuddly and cute. One night as wifey cleaned the floors, an arachnid of some sort scurried across the foyer, prompting an outcry from my better half. It was indeed a nasty character - an uncommonly large spider, black and brown, and very fuzzy. Clad in bedroom slippers, I made the mistake of stomping on it. Although the big, menacing spider was reduced to juice on the floor, in its place were dozens of barely visible baby spiders, which proceeded to scurry maniacally about. We were able to suck most of them into the vacuum cleaner (I hope).

My father-in-law informed me that the creature I had offed was a wolf spider, which carries its young on its back. My research verified the fact. When the mother spider senses danger, she secretes a chemical that signals her young to "abandon ship" and seek shelter. Wolf spiders are poisonous but not lethal to humans.

Most nights, I step outside and deploy a nicotine delivery system before bed. Two weeks ago, in evening costume -- barefooted, with PJ bottoms -- I flipped on the front porch light, opened the door, and took half a stride over the threshold before something caught my eye: Slithering across the porch, not two feet from the threshold (precisely where I would have stepped), was a three-foot long serpent.

Frozen in shock and horror, I realized that the uninvited guest was a copperhead. By the time I raced to the barn in the backyard and got a shovel, the sinister visitor had disappeared. Pulse racing, I wondered (and still wonder) exactly where he went.

I am terrified of snakes. Of every kind. Many people have told me, "Oh, if you encounter a black snake, you don't need to worry. They're harmless." To me, however, every snake is lethal; I have a heart attack if a serpent gets within 100 yards. Driven by morbid curiosity, I will watch them on TV for hours, and I'm mesmerized by snakes at the zoo, where I can be appalled by them from behind a thick pane of glass.

Does an irrational fear of snakes disqualify one from the league of animal lovers?

Charles Davenport Jr. (daisha99@msn.com) is a freelance columnist who appears alternate Sundays in the News & Record.