It's that time of year, when nature comes too close for comfort. My spiders are back, which means that when I open the front door, they rush over the threshold, scurry into the living room, and take the good chair.

Now, there's new news.

A grasshopper who throws himself against the front door every morning. Each day when I come down, I see him. He jumps up, bonks his head on the door, then lands and looks up, only to try again. I named him Sisyphus, and have gone from admiring his persistence to doubting his sanity.

Lately I'm wondering if it's the same stubborn grasshopper, or a team of less-stubborn grasshoppers, rotating the chore. Either way, he's gone by the afternoon, when I see other grasshoppers in the front yard, who jump and then fly, which is a neat trick. They look like him, so I assume he's one of them, but if I could jump and fly, I wouldn't be wasting my time trying to get inside anybody's house. I'd have a reality show.

Anyway, between the spiders and the grasshopper, I stopped using the front door and began using the back door.

Until Little Tony's frog appeared.

Yes, there's a small green frog who hangs out near my back door. He's there every night, and when I open the door, he jumps once, then pretends he's a rock. Jumping and impersonating a rock isn't as cool as jumping and flying, but who am I to judge? I can't do any tricks, except maybe writing a book.

Anyway, when the frog goes into rock mode, he fools my two golden retrievers and Ruby the corgi. They trot past him, happy to accept that rocks jump only on occasion. But Little Tony, the spaniel puppy, knows better.

He sits at the back door all day long, waiting for nightfall. As soon as the frog appears, Little Tony paws at the door, and I let him out, because he wants to be with the frog. He doesn't try to bite or chase it, he just sits next to it, happily.

Bottom line, Little Tony has a pet frog.

Or maybe a pet rock.

I don't want to disturb them, so now I use the back door only during the day, and the rest of the time, I am trapped inside my house by spiders, grasshoppers, and one very clever rock.

Nature finds its way inside, however. It all begins with a fox, crossing my backyard. He's orange and fluffy, and appears every day about 5 o'clock, then vanishes. Inside the house, his appearance creates havoc. The goldens bark, Ruby the corgi runs in circles, and Little Tony eats the window. The fox laughs and runs away.

But the fox doesn't come for about a month, and when he returns, he looks terrible. He's skinny and his fur is mottled. He scratches his ears constantly. He needs help, so I call all the animal control people, who tell me it's not their problem and suggest I catch him in a Havahart trap. I'm going out to buy one when I find him on the driveway, dead.

The dogs do a victory dance around him, but I feel sad.

Until one night, when I'm trying to sleep and all of them are scratching their ears, their feet thumping against the floor. I turn on the light, wondering. The next day I take the dogs to the vet, and it turns out they have mange. They get treated, and it will go away in a month. But not before I notice a rash on my neck, near my ear.

And boy, does it itch.

So you know where this is going.

I call the vet. "Can people get mange?" I ask.

"I get it all the time," says he.

"Really? What do you do for it?"

"Wait it out. They take two weeks to die."

I consider this.

I'm already single enough.

I'm on my way to the doctor, now.

Look for a collection of "Chick Wit" columns in Lisa Scottoline's new book, "Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog," coming Nov. 24. Contact her at www.lisascottoline.com.