When we returned from our morning ramble in the ravine with Jackie and Jillie yesterday and were walking about the garden, one of our next-door neighbours warned us of the presence of a groundhog in her garage. She did that knowing our little dogs on becoming aware of the presence of another animal would rush headlong toward it. And groundhogs are equipped by nature to really look after themselves with a daunting degree of ferocity.

Shortly afterward, she came over when we were in the house to update the situation. It wasn't a groundhog after all that had decided to take up squatter's rights in her garage. Her husband, on viewing it initially had informed her it was a groundhog, but it was really a tiny chipmunk. We all had a good laugh. They've had problems in the past with raccoons and squirrels nesting in their attic, and it cost them a good penny to have a pest control firm humanely solve the problem for them, waiting until the young were old enough to be moved by their mother in spring, and then closing up the tiny portals through which they had entered.

It made me think of the time years ago when we were out in British Columbia visiting with our youngest son and we decided to do some alpine camping. It took us hours to ascend the peak we had chosen and we had struggled up some pretty demanding terrain carrying our backpacks, in the process. When we finally reached as close to the summit as we felt comfortable with, where we could pitch our tent (moderately sloped) and draw water to purify from a small lake below being filled by a melting glacier nearby, I happened to be the first up. And exhausted, I glanced over to the left and saw a small bear looking back down at me.

I shouted out to my husband and son, and my son hurried up, took a look and had a good laugh. Perspective sometimes is everything, not just in how one perceives what is said, but what one sees. This was no bear cub, but a marmot, a furry brown resident of the alpine heights. Later, we came across tiny picas as well, sounding their sharp-voiced little alarms.

This wasn't the only time I'd mistaken one animal for another. Even further back in time we three had been hiking a long forest path in the Gatineau Hills, and once again I had happened to run ahead of the others. This time I stopped when there was a commotion in the bush to my left, so I looked over and suddenly saw a very large brown dog beginning to emerge, wondering where his human companion was. Until I realized this was no dog, but a bear, and swiftly retraced my steps to meet up with the laggards, leaving the no-doubt-confused bear well behind.

No marmots, bears or groundhogs seen today in the ravine, when we pushed off into the cool confines of the forest on yet another exhaustingly-hot day. Not quite as early as previous mornings, because we stayed in bed a little longer, and Jackie and Jillie kindly taking pity on us, allowed us to. Earlier they had leaped raucously off the bed barking in their usual frantic way when they had heard the municipal garbage-collection trucks go by, then resumed their place back in bed and we all went back to sleep.

We admired the mass profusion of bright pink thimbleberries lighting up the green foliage of the massively growing plants this year, then delved into the ravine, the trails dark with the moisture they had lapped up through a series of heavy thunderstorms yesterday afternoon. For the most part no one else happened along when we were out save for one person we've known for years but haven't seen in many months. And because we were glad to see one another, we lingered and spoke together for quite awhile before shoving on again; one of those serendipitous little events that brighten a day.

There is one area in the forest with a colony of Partridgeberry and I glanced over as we passed it, the tiny foliage luxuriantly dark green and glistening with drops left over from yesterday. And there were tiny white trumpet shaped blooms that would later, much later, become bright red berries which presumably birds other than partridges now eat in season, because we haven't seen partridges around for many a year in the ravine.

Later, after breakfast, when we were out in the garden and I was doing a bit of tidying up, a neighbour who lives on a different street happened by, and she and my husband embarked on a long conversation. Jackie and Jillie are always excited to see people they know, tending to leap around them, waiting to be noticed and to be petted. They've finally come to understand that they're not permitted to run out on the road, but still need reminders.

This woman in her earlier professional years had worked as an OR nurse. Which left me baffled when I briefly joined them in conversation, noting how near her preferred proximity was to us. Each time my husband or I shuffled off slightly to create more of a distance, she would take it as a signal to approach closer. Why it is that we remain loathe to frankly inform someone that this makes us uncomfortable is beyond me. In hesitating to hurt someone's feelings, we sacrifice our own security. And that's an event that definitely doesn't make for a better day.