"Did you hear that?" I whispered.
My sweet Sven did not respond.
I rolled over in the dark and forgot about it.
However, daylight proved that I had not been dreaming.
We have not officially met the lovely buck toothed couple who moved into our back yard a couple months ago, because it has been a little awkward.
Regardless, we are trying to stay above the noise and do the neighborly thing.
Sven did not ask to borrow a cup of sugar so that I could bake a pie and go knocking on their door or anything like that.
By neighborly I mean that we have not shot, trapped or drowned the dam building infiltrators.
Which, in our defense has been the only advice we have been offered.
It all started when the newcomers showed up as soon as they realized that the mighty old king of the jungle, otherwise known here in the black hole just outside Harmony Grove as, Hunter and or Puppy Dog, world's oldest and loudest barker, who ferociously patrolled the area, had kicked the bucket.
Before I could even begin to understand the severity of this great loss, the pair of newlyweds had already plugged up the culvert that runs under our driveway with sticks, branches, and leaves. This caused the water level to rise above our dilapidated pier and would in time cave in our driveway.
So, Sven put on a borrowed pair of hip waders that came up to his neck and together the two of us cleaned out the jammed-up tunnel as best as we could.
We then had it professionally flushed with jet propelled water for about a quarter of a million dollars.
After the culvert was cleared and the water was once again flowing through, Sven secured a fence in front of it to make the project from hell difficult to continue for the busy little oversized rodents.
We had evened the score.
They gave up and disappeared into their den in the bank next to the pier, which quite disrespectfully, is just a few feet from Hunter's old favorite stomping grounds there in the murky pond.
Sven and I spent the next afternoon on pier repair, replacing the post that had gone missing, and straightening it as best as we could with a couple come along winches and a brace at the end of it that looks like an N, for Noe, not a C for Cleaver, making the score, 2-1, our favor, as we had re-established ownership of the pier.
We high fived each other on the back deck that night, as we watched underwater beaver ripples in the water and admired our job well done.
Our victory parade was short lived, with the latest, "timber!", that I heard the Cleavers yell in the middle of the night before that last tree came crashing down.
However, it was not a surprise attack, as that tree had already been teetering on its sawed-off trunk for a couple weeks. It was simply a matter of when it would topple.
"That bastard was out there working in the middle of the night?" said Sven.
"Honey, sshh, they can hear you."
It has been quiet here lately on the front lines.
But never trust the calm of the eye of a hurricane.
Calm means that beavers are in the planning stage.
"What do you suppose they'll do next?" I asked Sven as we watched Mr. Cleaver on his way across the pond to fetch another branch from his newly fallen crop to take back to that adorable bride of his, so that she could gnaw on it inside their cute little starter home.
"Make babies," he said.
We are not planning to have any more kids; however, we have several grandchildren we can call in for reinforcements.
Click the link below for the beginning of the beaver saga.