There are two distinct stages to late spring. The first is yard discovery and the second is yard cleanup. Of these, the first is the more discouraging.

As you look at the late-melting snow, you begin to see artifacts appearing. First, you might find a mitten or a handful of change and then a scattering of tin cans from the time the recycling bin blew off the deck. Then comes the long-handled shovel and the fan rake that you thought you had put in the garage. Over in a drift, it looks as if your fertilizer spreader (never used) is poking out.

And everywhere — absolutely and utterly everywhere — are the signs that you are a dog owner. I don’t mean just a bone or two; I mean the reason you are going to need that long-handled shovel. We are talking serious amounts of dog poop — enough to build a couple of spare dogs if you had the skills of Dr. Frankenstein.

As I scoop my way across the lawn, I’m reminded of the days we had a corner lot in the city and it was much favoured by dogs. By the time I got that lot cleaned in the spring, I could tell you the winter diet of many dogs.

But I think I can skip that part.

When the snow is finally gone and you have made a dent in the dog leftovers, then comes the business of yard cleanup. It’s amazing how many trowels and spades have been left under the snow. And it’s amazing and distressing at how much plain rubbish has blown in from distant neighbours — mostly plastic bags and coffee cups.

(The only time I ever enjoyed yard cleanup was in my childhood, when we had a fair-sized hockey rink in our backyard. It was a busy place in winter and pucks that went over the boards often vanished in the snow. In the spring, the sun would make the black pucks easy to find. My personal record of puck recovery was 31.)

Along with yard cleanup comes a few moral questions. For example, this past winter the compost overflowed and I started a new pile by simply dumping stuff in our closest field. The deer often browse there, and now I find that it has become a mouse haven. I could wage war on them or I could just let them be. I tend to the latter course because they are only mice; in the city, they would be rats.

I also face the moral dilemma of what to do with my collection of snakes. Several springs ago, I discovered a green and yellow garter snake that had gotten itself stuck in a hole in the foundation of our house. I think it had tried to slither inside with a full stomach. When it was still stuck a day later, I decided to set it free. But when I approached too closely, it popped loose on its own. So far, so good.

However, this past Easter, when I inspected that hole, I found at least eight garter snakes slithering around in the warm sun. And I do believe that they are all living in that hole in our wall. So, the question is: do I leave them alone and let them flourish? Somewhere — who knows where — inside our very own wall? And what happens if 20 or 30 suddenly turn up in the basement or surface in the toilet?

As if dog dirt and an excess of serpents weren’t enough to deal with this spring, I also face a few problems a bit further afield, where high winds have snapped the tops off a couple of trees. The top of one poplar crashed into the ground and is no trouble, but there’s a big cedar tree hanging over a path and I think I’m going to have to tackle it with a rope and a chainsaw.

Frankly, I’d rather shovel dog poop and contemplate snakes. IE