Yesterday was my birthday and Jackson, who is learning his letters, made my name out of colored sticks and the boys made supper all by themselves (roast chicken, noodles, salad and pumpkin pie) and it was great. The best news of the day, though, was the dead squirrel.
I remember, as a young child, thinking squirrels were cute. My dad took a management course at Penn State one summer and we drove down to visit him and marveled at the enormous grey squirrels that ran up and down the big elm trees around campus.
I remember, as a young child, thinking squirrels were cute. My dad took a management course at Penn State one summer and we drove down to visit him and marveled at the enormous grey squirrels that ran up and down the big elm trees around campus.
A summer or two later, we went hiking on Mt. Washington and stopped at the AMC Hermit Lake shelter for lunch. I had a Hershey bar in the pocket of my lovely new windbreaker that I was looking forward to for dessert. Well, when I was ready to eat my chocolate bar, I had nothing but a hole in my pocket. I was just old enough not to cry about it, so I gathered up some rocks and lay in wait. And so it began.
In the houses and cabins of my single life, squirrels filled my ski boots with acorns and dog food, made nests in my sweater drawer and ran month-long track and field events on my roof. I bought an ultra-sonic device that was supposed to repel rodents with a piercing noise, inaudible to humans. Apparently I have supersensory hearing, because I could hear that thing pulling into the driveway, windows rolled up, radio on. I set a tin of mixed nuts and rat poison out on the porch; every nut was carefully removed. I went to K-Mart and bought a CO2-fired pellet gun, put out more mixed nuts and set up a blind. I shot one squirrel and for a while the track and field activity stopped and I thought I had solved my problem, but they were just out on a recruiting mission to fill the dead squirrel's spot on the relay team.
I came home from waiting tables one day to see a mama squirrel with a baby squirrel on her back, scampering along the telephone wire toward a gap in the eaves of the house. I picked up a rock and pegged them from sixty feet , surprising no one more than me. The mama dropped the baby, who made terrible sad noises, and then ran away. I didn't know what to do. I probably should have put the little creature out of its misery and rid the world of one more repulsive varmint, but I couldn't bring myself to get any closer to that baby squirrel. I didn't even know if it was hurt or just too scared to run and I thought it might look at me or bite me or something if I got too close. So I got back in my truck and drove away. When I came back a few hours later, it was gone, collected by its mother or eaten by a larger varmint, I couldn't say.
When I married Earl and moved to the farm, I was delighted to learn that he hadn't seen a squirrel out of the woods since he was a kid. For a girl who had previously considered seeking work in Antarctica to get away from squirrels, this seemed like a dream come true. And it was, squirrel-wise, until this fall. Then a little red squirrel appeared from nowhere and started picking the apples from the old tree at the corner of the house and carrying them up the lilac bush and phone wire to the attic. He wasn't very shy about it, and Earl soon learned his habits and then went out and shot him and that was it, no more squirrel. Earl was my hero.
We didn't see or hear any more activity until winter started to stretch on and some squirrel who must have overheard the dead squirrel bragging about his great apple stash decided to go after it. The new squirrel also made his way through the boys' bedroom, the upstairs closets, and my sewing room. I put some nuts outside and Earl spent some time watching with his gun, but there was no regular pattern of activity and I was back in familiar territory, with the hair on the back of my neck standing up every time I went upstairs, seething.
So I went to the hardware store and bought rat traps, which are near the top of my list of Things That I'm Afraid Of, and Earl glued pistachio nuts to the bait bar and set them up. For two days, the traps were untouched, but last night I checked on them and the one on my sewing table was gone. I got a flashlight and found it under the table, and there was a fuzzy tail with a big apple-fed squirrel attached to it. Earl is my hero again. I breathed a deep sigh and crawled into bed. I could sleep easy. Happy birthday to me.
Earl has now put the dead squirrel in the branches of the apple tree, as a lesson to any others in the neighborhood. I know I should be a little grossed out by this, but I'm not. I hope it works and word gets out that we are not to be messed with. My hope is that the dead squirrel is the last squirrel. My fear is that we're only killing the stupid ones, creating a race of Uber Squirrels by selection. If that happens, I may have to resort to more drastic measures. My grandfather once ran an electric current through the pole that supported his bird feeder, watching out the window and flicking a switch. I'm not that protective of bird seed, but my house is a different story and electrocution is promising.
In the houses and cabins of my single life, squirrels filled my ski boots with acorns and dog food, made nests in my sweater drawer and ran month-long track and field events on my roof. I bought an ultra-sonic device that was supposed to repel rodents with a piercing noise, inaudible to humans. Apparently I have supersensory hearing, because I could hear that thing pulling into the driveway, windows rolled up, radio on. I set a tin of mixed nuts and rat poison out on the porch; every nut was carefully removed. I went to K-Mart and bought a CO2-fired pellet gun, put out more mixed nuts and set up a blind. I shot one squirrel and for a while the track and field activity stopped and I thought I had solved my problem, but they were just out on a recruiting mission to fill the dead squirrel's spot on the relay team.
I came home from waiting tables one day to see a mama squirrel with a baby squirrel on her back, scampering along the telephone wire toward a gap in the eaves of the house. I picked up a rock and pegged them from sixty feet , surprising no one more than me. The mama dropped the baby, who made terrible sad noises, and then ran away. I didn't know what to do. I probably should have put the little creature out of its misery and rid the world of one more repulsive varmint, but I couldn't bring myself to get any closer to that baby squirrel. I didn't even know if it was hurt or just too scared to run and I thought it might look at me or bite me or something if I got too close. So I got back in my truck and drove away. When I came back a few hours later, it was gone, collected by its mother or eaten by a larger varmint, I couldn't say.
When I married Earl and moved to the farm, I was delighted to learn that he hadn't seen a squirrel out of the woods since he was a kid. For a girl who had previously considered seeking work in Antarctica to get away from squirrels, this seemed like a dream come true. And it was, squirrel-wise, until this fall. Then a little red squirrel appeared from nowhere and started picking the apples from the old tree at the corner of the house and carrying them up the lilac bush and phone wire to the attic. He wasn't very shy about it, and Earl soon learned his habits and then went out and shot him and that was it, no more squirrel. Earl was my hero.
We didn't see or hear any more activity until winter started to stretch on and some squirrel who must have overheard the dead squirrel bragging about his great apple stash decided to go after it. The new squirrel also made his way through the boys' bedroom, the upstairs closets, and my sewing room. I put some nuts outside and Earl spent some time watching with his gun, but there was no regular pattern of activity and I was back in familiar territory, with the hair on the back of my neck standing up every time I went upstairs, seething.
So I went to the hardware store and bought rat traps, which are near the top of my list of Things That I'm Afraid Of, and Earl glued pistachio nuts to the bait bar and set them up. For two days, the traps were untouched, but last night I checked on them and the one on my sewing table was gone. I got a flashlight and found it under the table, and there was a fuzzy tail with a big apple-fed squirrel attached to it. Earl is my hero again. I breathed a deep sigh and crawled into bed. I could sleep easy. Happy birthday to me.
Earl has now put the dead squirrel in the branches of the apple tree, as a lesson to any others in the neighborhood. I know I should be a little grossed out by this, but I'm not. I hope it works and word gets out that we are not to be messed with. My hope is that the dead squirrel is the last squirrel. My fear is that we're only killing the stupid ones, creating a race of Uber Squirrels by selection. If that happens, I may have to resort to more drastic measures. My grandfather once ran an electric current through the pole that supported his bird feeder, watching out the window and flicking a switch. I'm not that protective of bird seed, but my house is a different story and electrocution is promising.
Beware, squirrel friends. Go back to the woods.
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1 comment:
You're not alone in your hatred of squirrels. Do a Google search of "all squirrels must die."
Anne M.
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