Squirrels
I glance out the window.
There, sitting in my birdfeeder, are two squirrels. They’re scooping out pawful after pawful of birdseed, and tossing the seeds to two other squirrels on the ground below.
Many of these seeds are the ultra-expensive black oil sunflower seeds, which have a street value of hundreds of dollars. The only way some of the poorer, down-on-their-luck birds (itinerant grackles, starlings, etc.) ever get a chance to savor this delicacy is at my feeder – but not if these squirrels have anything to say about it. They’ll leave my feeder as barren as an abandoned strip mine.
Picture yourself and your family sitting down to a delightful dinner at the exclusive Chateau Du Borengasser, when, suddenly, a half dozen rowdy, burly, tattooed bikers burst in and take over. That’s what it’s like.
If you look at it another way, these squirrels are committing grand larceny, a crime punishable in some states by dismemberment.
I can’t stand it.
Just because they’re cute, bushy-tailed, buck-toothed cartoon critters, these squirrels think they can get away with murder. (I haven’t actually caught them in a murder, but it’s only a matter of time.)
This whole image is incredibly deceptive. They aren’t anywhere near as charming as they’d like you to believe. Just look up “squirrel” in the dictionary, and you’ll find the definition, “tree weasel.”
I’ve had enough.
This is war. Before I’m finished, the Battle of Waterloo will seem like a lawn social.
DAY ONE: “You’re not going to shoot them, are you?” asks the lovely Mrs. Borengasser.
“Hah! Shooting’s too good for them,” I tell her on my way out the door. “I’m going to outsmart them.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m back in the house. “Here’s my strategy,” I inform the lovely Mrs. Borengasser. “I’ve moved the feeder out just far enough on the limb so the squirrels can’t jump to it from the tree trunk. The problem’s solved, but General Borengasser’s starving. What’s for lunch?”
“K-rations.”
DAY TWO: I get up bright and early, grab a cup of coffee, and go gaze out the den window.
I am astonished. Seven squirrels are leaping to and from the feeder, swinging on it like Flying Walindas.
I charge out of the house, yelling and flapping my arms wildly. The squirrels glance up from their thievery. For just a fraction of a second, all of our eyes meet, and I can see a thought flit through their little rodent minds: “We can take him.”
But then my size and volume take over, and they all spring to the ground and dash up the nearest tree.
I’m down, but not out, for I have a secret weapon, named Padge. Padge is our mixed-breed terrier, whose only objective in life is to one day chew on a squirrel. I once thought this was a rather pedestrian aspiration, but I now see it as a magnificent goal, on the same level as nirvana and winning the Super Bowl.
My revised strategy is to wait till the squirrels are in the feeder, and then quietly release Padge, who will sprint out and frighten them into jumping for the tree. They’ll miss the tree, and Padge will … well … you know the rest.
DAY THREE: I’m slumped in my recliner.
The lovely Mrs. Borengasser enters. “How goes the war of wits?” she asks.
“Not too bad.”
“You’re losing, huh?”
I sigh. “I’ve lopped off limbs. I’ve spread lard on the tree trunk. I’ve moved the feeder to every conceivable place on the tree. And, still, these rabies-ridden rodents manage to pilfer and plunder.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“There’s only one thing I can do.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve decided that my feeder is no longer a birdfeeder. It’s now a squirrel feeder.”
The lovely Mrs. Borengasser looks confused. “What will that accomplish?”
“Simple. Now, the birds will be stealing from them. See how they like it.”