Squatters

The critters that have moved into the feed room are in a snit.  Either that or they're doing spring cleaning.  Every morning now I find more stuff shoved off the shelves and onto the floor.  There is a big nest on a top shelf and they're really making themselves at home, rent free.  Since I've never seen them, I don't know whether they're mice or squirrels, but I'm leaning toward mice.  Paper goods have been torn into tiny, tiny pieces and they've found bags of raw wool and added some of that to insulate their winter homes.  And that is "homes," plural.  Another colony has taken the risk of building in a big enamel washtub in a corner on the floor.  They think they're hiding in amongst the other stuff I've stored in the tub, but Frank and Pearl know exactly where they are.  These critters are living the good life.  The scratch (a mix of corn and other seeds) and lay pellets for the chickens are protected in trash barrels in the feed room, but the bags of goat chow are out in the open until I take one down to the barn.  There was a time I could store three bags of chow with no problem.  Now I buy just two at a time so I don't have to go to the feed store every week, but I can count on at least one being opened at the bottom and chow scattered all over.  It's not easy to trundle a seventy-five-pound bag of feed with a big hole down to the barn on a hand cart without leaving a trail of grain, or to lift that sucker up to empty it into the big barrel without making a donation to the barn mice.  I really don't mind feeding the wildlife on my terms, but these little squatters moved in without a by-your-leave and are taking advantage of my largess.  Frank and Pearl may find themselves with a new assignment.