A basket of walnuts is by the kitchen window. There are always more in the pockets of my housedress. And by the slider to the deck. There are three extra bags in the kitchen island. My husband and I have both admitted this: throwing nuts to the squirrels has become an addiction. Sugar, the rescue, knows the routine. She stands guard on the deck, quivering, leaning precariously close to the edge, beaming an “if I could only get my paws on you!” energy. But I am a benign goddess of Walnuttia, like the many-breasted Artemis of Napoli: mangia bene, rodents.