Revenge of the Tree Weasels
As anyone who has taken basic biology knows, the true scientific name for what we commonly call a “squirrel” is “arborius vicious” or “tree weasel.”
For years, I’ve been locked in a bitter struggle with tree weasels. We are in mortal combat over control of my bird feeder. The tree weasels think they have a right to the black oil sunflower seed that I put out for the local birds.
Normally, I might be more generous, but black oil sunflower seed is, pound for pound, one of the most expensive substances on the planet. In Russia, black oil sunflower seed costs more than toilet paper.
In spite of all my efforts, the tree weasels would raid my bird feeder at will, until I enlisted the aid of my trusty dog, Padge, who hates tree weasels as much as I do. The nasty little rodents kept their distance with Padge on patrol.
This should have been the end of the story: Borengasser – 1; Tree weasels – 0.
But I made one of the classic military mistakes: I underestimated the enemy.
It is late afternoon. Pulling into the garage, I catch sight of a movement overhead. Looking up, I see nothing but a small round hole in the house just below the roof. I’d never noticed this hole before. I think I may have glimpsed something darting into the hole, sneaking into our attic.
The next day, the lovely Mrs. Borengasser hears a strange noise coming from the attic – tippity-tappity, tippity-tappity – as if some animals were running around up there.
Tree weasels! I’m sure of it. Probably scouts, doing reconnaissance work for tree weasel headquarters, possibly preparing for a major offensive.
When a man’s birdseed is threatened, that’s one thing. But his home? I have to make a stand.
Fortunately, I’d seen Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, so I knew better than to tackle this alone. I call an exterminator.
The next day, the exterminator flushes out three tree weasels from our attic and boards up the hole.
Later that night, I try to make a phone call. The line is dead. Stepping outside with a flashlight, I see that the phone line has been gnawed in two.
Understanding hits me like a banana crème pie. What’s the first thing an invading force does? They cut off the enemy’s lines of communication. Then they move in.
It’s obvious. The tree weasels are coming for me. And it could happen at any moment.
I sit in my recliner to wait for them.
In the dark.
Me and my noble dog, Padge.
Make no mistake. I’m not simply doing this for me, in some vainglorious attempt to be a hero. I’m doing this for you, too. For all people. Everywhere.
Do you think the tree weasels will stop with me? Don’t be naïve. I’m just a test. You’ll be next. The tree weasels know you have a warm nest filled with yummy things to eat.
Thunder rumbles in the distance. A storm is coming. I think I hear a window in the living room being shattered, followed by the sound of hundreds of tiny footsteps.
I reach down and give Padge a nudge.
We’re ready.
Who knows what will happen tonight?
But there’s one thing I can assure you – they’ll never take us alive.