In the little Ozark community I grew up in, the word poaching usually evokes images of men clad in camo, gun-racks, and nighttime forests filled with crooning hunting dogs. But it would seem that we're dealing with another kind of poaching around here at Mabel's House.
Suburban squirrel poachers, to be exact.
There is nothing, I repeat nothing, that puts a kink in Matt's mood like half eaten pears. Or tomatoes. Or cucumbers (although we've narrowed our cucumber suspect list down to Miss Mabel, she loves the little yellow flowers).