It was an unusually large, orange harvest moon. Enough so that Scott phoned home: "Go take a picture!" I walked out to the end of the driveway and snapped a photo, but it doesn't do the moon justice. Not at all. Too bad.

This afternoon it's sunny and breezy. I headed out for a walk and decided, once I hit the gravel road, to curtail my rambling to the outer perimeter of the farmyard. The dog was practically under my feet, which is unusual for her, and before long I realized why: I, too, heard gunshots from the west. The dog wouldn't go more than 10 feet from me, then would run right back, shaking, shivering, and panting. She's terrified when she hears thunder, too.

My guess is that it's the (mostly) American hunters who come up for a couple weeks this time of year to shoot geese and ducks. I don't know if deer season is open yet. But we've all heard stories like the one about the American from the city who mistakes a domestic cow for a moose and shoots it. To be on the safe side, I usually wear my bright red plaid jacket when I go out for a walk in the fall. And I wish those hunters weren't anywhere around here.

The dog ... when I wouldn't let her into the house with me ... has now hidden under the deck. It's just as well. From a distance, if you saw her in the field, she could easily be mistaken for a coyote. And who knows what gun-happy men will shoot at.