The Country Mice

Meet Flash.

Flash’s name is on the land titles certificate I signed in order to purchase this spot of rocky terrain. He owns this place.

Just kidding — but it might as well be true. You can see here how he’s fluffed himself for the photo-op. It’s important to maintain a good image.

The previous owners of this house on the hill gave Flash his appellation based on his lineage as he’s the third of a long line of Steller’s Jays to take charge of the inhabitants who’ve erected a home in his forest.

Two generations before Flash there was Cheeky. Then came Son of Cheeky.

You laugh — but this was serious stuff to the folks who lived in this house. And they were very concerned about whether Flash & Crew would be cared for after their departure.

Cat? We don’t have a cat.

Kids, the cat’s not coming.

At any rate, Flash has trained us well. Mornings begin with his tap-tapping on the window, whereupon someone dashes to the door and proffers a peanut or two.

On days when one of his siblings shows up we have a party.

It’s more like a rumble. Words fly and based on the timbre, they ain’t in the OED.

Word of the peanut parties have gone around the island, clearly, as Flash has now been joined by a legion of others, seven at last count.

A bushel bag of peanuts now sits in the garage.

Easy to say who’s trained whom.