Dear raccoon, opossum, whatever you are...

I know I should take it as a compliment. That our bombed-out, unloved front yard has become more hospitable to the food you're after - grubs, worms, larvae - is a sign that our soil, our biome is healing.

I know I should practice some compassion, see this as an opportunity for a lesson in impermanence or letting go. Maybe appreciate this little intrusion as a natural by-product of collaborating with Mother Nature.

And I know this is giving me a good story to share with my gardening comrades. Earning me some garden cred.

But seriously? You suck.

You know that patch of Spanish roja garlic you just tore through? Do you have any idea how much that stuff costs? (If you do, shhhhh! Don't tell the Mrs.!)

And those mini sweet and scarlet red carrot seeds you dug up? Can you be the one to break the news to my 5-year-old who helped me plant them? And good luck with that, because she's gonna be pissed.

Fingers-crossed that the broccoli rabe and red cabbage seedlings will pull through. I'm not so sure about the shelling peas.

But where do we go from here? Should I just give you the benefit of the doubt and assume this is a one-time-deal? Or maybe I have to put in a call to the local animal control. Start looking into electrified fences. Heaven forbid you'd leave behind any baby critters that would have to fend for themselves.

Ok, ok. I'm sorry. I shouldn't threaten you like that. You can't help it, nocturnal scavenger that you are. But can you see what this is doing to me?

So let's make a deal. I'll let this one slide, and we'll just call this material for the blog. But please, please let me get through the rest of this growing season. I'm working too damn hard as it is to let you blow this for me.

And I'd hate to have to turn this into a man vs. critter blog. That'd only lead to dark places. For both of us.

Deal?