We came across a long-time neighbour just as we were concluding our ravine walk yesterday. Her house is directly adjacent the ravine entrance. Not the original owners, but they've lived there long enough to qualify as 'long-time'. With her was her tiny part-Yorkie, Newton, a delightful and shy little dog, acquainted with our own two, Jack and Jill.

As we were talking neighbourly things, exiting the ravine, a tiny squirrel appeared in the underbrush and ventured forward tentatively, toward us. Our presence obviously didn't quite frighten the lovely little animal, somehow serving, confoundingly to draw it nearer to us, despite the presence of three dogs, small as they were, infinitely larger than the squirrel not long out of the nest. Not to speak of three gigantic creatures, human beings that we are.

It did withdraw, but not before I urged it to be more cautious and to be aware that there is safety in the discretion of distance. Its mother appears to have neglected its obligation to her young to school them in safety measures, among which should be the cardinal rule: approach all creatures larger than itself with suspicion and extra caution. Earlier, in the spring, a tiny new squirrel had come directly toward us on a ravine trail, stopping only when it had reached Jack and Jill, and the three little animals; the squirrel minuscule, our small dogs towering over it, sniffing one another.

On that occasion my husband had reached down and lifted the tiny animal, to take it further into the denseness of the forest, and deposit it on a high crook of a tree trunk, in the hope that it would survive. This is not the kind of encounter with animals in the wild as it were, that we appreciate. These encounters are extremely distressing for what they portend to the fate of these trusting creatures. Most dogs walked in the ravine take great pleasure in meeting their instinctual challenge to chase after squirrels. Our biologist son reminds us that this is partly what survival of the fittest is about.

Yesterday, just as twilight began to fall, we ambled from the backyard with Jack and Jill into the front garden. My husband saw a movement on the walkway brickwork before the frontmost gardens and realized it was a tiny grey mouse. The sweet-looking creature, obviously not long on its own, appeared to have been injured. It made repeated attempts to run off, but its body was canted to one side, and it had difficulty obtaining purchase adequate to its intention. Jack and Jill were curious, and I was stricken at the plight of the adorable creature.

My husband put on a pair of soft cotton gloves, cradled the frightened little thing in his hand, and went off to the ravine with it, to deposit it deep in a pile of soft leaf detritus, hoping that by some miracle of nature beyond our knowing, the little mouse might survive whatever it was that threatened its existence.