Growing up at the end of a backwoods dirt road may be viewed by some as negative.

As teens, dances and weddings held no interest, so we created our own form of awareness and entertainment.

There was the shallow, mud-bottomed and mosquito-infested Lilian River, many square kilometres of farmland boasting abundant wildlife, edible berries and countless secret hideaways.

Finally, there was our collection of domestic and, occasionally, wild pets.

I recall a great horned owl, a snowshoe hare and a northern flying squirrel.

My oldest brother brought the owlet home.

We boarded it in the barn’s hayloft, where it became a contented guest for more than a month, keeping the younger brothers busy snaring gophers to satisfy its unquenchable hunger.

In time, it gained strength, initially took short forays but returned for its free lunch, then eventually disappeared into the night.

I do not remember how we got the bush rabbit, but it also was lodged in the hayloft.

My only recollection was it was older, with a nasty disposition, resulting in a series of scratches and deep bites in my hands.

It was soon banished back into the wilds.

All brothers participated in capturing the flying squirrel by chasing it up a succession of black spruce until it missed its mark and landed on the ground.

But, within days, we came home to find our large, luminous-eyed house guest gone and, since mother was against the capture from the start, its escape was viewed with suspicion.

On a crisp autumn day, older brother and I spotted a short-tailed weasel carrying a freshly killed mouse.

We decided to catch it by charging forward, causing the carnivore to drop its prey and streak up an aspen.

I followed but, in an instance, it reversed, shot past me, hit the ground and dove down a burrow.

No strangers to the art of snaring, we produced a length of binder twine, looped it around the hole and waited.

The first few tries failed due to the weasel’s highly developed split-second reflexes.

Retrieving the dropped mouse, we suspended it above the hole and reset the snare.

The weasel shot up, the line was jerked and we had our quarry — but the contest was not over.

Our captive turned into a blur, spinning like a top, reminiscent of the cartoon Tasmanian Devil, and was free in a second, dashing for the underbrush to be lost forever.

The morals of these stories are life is where you find it, not all aspire to be your house guest — and it is impossible to snare a Tasmanian Devil, a.k.a. a short-tailed weasel.