Some weeks ago, at the beginning of the summer, my son was visiting and looked out the front window.

“Wow!” he said. “Look at that big ol’ woodchuck!”

I was not wowed. That explained certain minor depredations in the garden. It disappeared behind the barn before I could spot it. Though I ran out with my dog (who was a city dog before I adopted her) I couldn’t find it. The dog, who has not gone beyond squirrels, was simply blank to her country-dog responsibilities.

I let it go, but alarms were raised a few days later when the broccoli disappeared.

This was the best broccoli crop I’d had in 15 years, gorgeous beautiful heads just ready to cut. All the buds, every bit of it, were chawed off on all 15 plants. It was heartbreaking.

The broccoli was protected by a chicken wire fence, thick with peas. I found the place the chuck had crawled under, and borrowed a Havahart trap big enough for a “big ol’ woodchuck.” The next morning I had a chuck.

It just wasn’t my chuck. It was a fat little guy, clearly raised by his big ol’ mama on my garden. I hated to separate mother and babe (after all, I have a heart!) but my concern was only momentary. Off he went in the back of my truck on a ride of several miles, deep into the woods where he could chuck as much wood as a wood chuck could to his heart’s content.

Then I reset the trap for mama. But she didn’t come.

Nor were there any more depredations on the broccoli, which grew some nice smaller side heads, or on any of the other vegetables. So I sat back and relaxed and attended to other things.

But a few days ago, I realized where that big ol’ chuck had been concentrating her energies when we checked the blackberry patch. It was disappearing. The damage was too discreet for a bear, which tramples everything. But all the new canes, which will bear next year’s crop, were knocked over, and many of the old canes were mysteriously dying with the fruit on them.

Right next to the patch, in a convenient location for daily munching, was a woodchuck hole. Out came the Havahart trap again, baited with peanut butter, which had worked on the little guy.

I’m often amazed at the secret lives of the animals. That big ol’ chuck has been living around here who knows how long, and I’ve never seen it. Deer and moose wander through. I see their tracks but rarely see them. I’m sure I share the blueberries in the field with the foxes and bear, but I see them even more rarely.

And just yesterday I found little holes in the front yard left by a skunk I’ve never seen who was digging for grubs. I was talking to my neighbor, Arthur Mitchell, who found the same holes and wondered what caused them.

Arthur is the revered founder of WA Mitchell Chairs, where I have a new part-time job. When he retired, Arthur sold the business to Dan Maxham, who has the same commitment to quality and customer service that Arthur started. A genius in the woodshop, Arthur is still welcomed as a consultant and makes daily visits to the manufacturing shop, which is next to his home just down the road from where I live.

My co-workers and I agreed that those little holes peppering his lawn were left by a skunk, and Arthur allowed as how anything he spotted digging holes in his yard under the cover of darkness was taking risks.

But back to my woodchuck. Remember, I don’t have a .22 and I do have a heart. And those traps really work. In just one night, I caught something again.

This time it was a skunk.

Imagine having a live skunk in a Havahart trap and having to figure out what to do with it. It’s a real stimulus to the imagination. I wasn’t looking forward to this task.

But Jim, the carpenter who is working on my barn, is full of arcane knowledge and he handed me an old canvas tarp and told me to hold it out in front of me as I approached and talk to the skunk as though it were my pussycat. Ever the gentleman, Jim offered to come along but I thought that one person smelling like a skunk would be adequate to the job.

I did just as Jim said, though it hardly was necessary to disguise myself to my new pet skunk. He had dug out the grass from under the wires of the trap and made himself a little nest, and I could barely see a bit a black and white fur peeking out.

“Well, little one,” I crooned to him as I came up. “Everything’s going to be just fine.” I covered the cage and heard him stir a bit, but otherwise all was quiet and my olfactory nerves were undisturbed. I had to wire the cage door open, since he was nesting on the plate that triggered the trap, and I left him at peace to leave as he wished, with just one parting comment.

“A word to the wise, little skunkie. Don’t go down to the Mitchell’s.”

And that big ol’ she woodchuck? I don’t know yet. I have a heart, I just don’t know how big it is. Maybe I should have a chat with Arthur.