The neighbors are starting to wonder.
Last week my dearly beloved husband bought a new post and bird feeder. He was quite proud of himself. Squirrel proof, the folks at the EHS (that’s Expensive Hardware Store) had bragged. They should have so-informed the squirrels because it wasn’t long before the feeder looked like it was wearing a coonskin cap, the squirrel’s tail twitching in ecstasy as he munched.
Dear Beloved ran out, slamming doors behind him, and ROARED. The nerve of that tree rat!
He decided to make our yard completely uninteresting to squirreldom, so he went back to the EHS for a squirrel baffle to hang atop another feeder and thin wire to use to re-hang our third feeder which has had so many squirrel visits it generally looks like it’s wrapped in a fur coat.
The squirrels weren’t baffled by the baffler and they circumvented the wire by bending a small limb down to feeder level. This was war and if it was anything like the Great Squirrel War of 1987, it was going to get ugly.
In 1983 Dearly Beloved and Pogo had bought a bird feeder when we lived in Chicago and it was pretty successful at keeping the squirrels at bay there. . . but then we moved south. Now I’m not saying that southern squirrels are smarter than mid-western squirrels, but the local Chip ‘n Dales thought we’d laid out that feast just for them. The Mister was determined that these redneck daredevils would not dis’ his big city feeder and the situation became so tense that he bought a BB pistol with a range of about 10 yards and a barrel so crooked that he had to aim about ten feet to the right. If, perchance a pellet hit a squirrel, it would bounce off so lightly that they were unaffected. His best bet was to aim at a tree and have the BB’s ping like raindrops.
Back then our beloved dog Daisy would sit with him and chase the squirrels faithfully on DB’s command. Miss Piggy simply lies around and watches them, then, after DB has scared them away, she moseys out to see if the squirrels happened to drop anything worth eating.
Yep, I reckon the only way to deal with a redneck squirrel is to become a redneck yourself, Bubba.
This time, the BB gun was long gone. Out came chain saw oil and. . . the heavy duty pruners. My blood ran cold. My husband is a menace with those darned pruners, which should require that the user be licensed. I have hard evidence (read stumps) to suggest that my loved one might not pass the test. And the chain saw oil? Holy crap!
He proceeded to whack off enough limbs to build a house and used the chain saw oil to grease the wires, poles, and baffler. (WHEW!) Then he stationed himself as a watchman at the sunroom windows, rushing outside to shout, wave, stomp, and clap if anything furry came into view. Even the dog next door became afraid to jump the fence to poop over here. The man has even suggested rearranging the furniture to make guard duty easier. He wants to put his desk in front of the bay window, facing out, his back to the rest of the room. (That would be me.)
I took Miss Piggy for a walk and heard him yelling GET OUT OF THERE! over on the next street. Yesterday he was on a long-distance call and suddenly tossed the phone aside to run out and chase Evil Squirrevel from the magnolia tree feeder. Cocky little bastard. (The squirrel, I mean.)
We are heading to the beach-house-not-on-the-beach today and DB has filled the feeders and oiled his weaponry. (Speaking of which, thank gawd he’s not a gun nut or he might have made a preemptive sweep.) I share his frustration; these are the same little turds that ate my strawberries in June.
Even with a stop at the peach stand for ice cream, this may be a tense trip. Tuesday night we had company for dinner and I had a bowl of cashews on the coffee table in the den. When I was cleaning up afterwards, I noticed that the bowl was completely empty–surprising, because I remember noticing that no one was eating them. DB loves nuts as much as he does popcorn, so I figured him to have eaten them while I was in the kitchen, even though he said he didn’t remember doing so.
This morning he took Miss Piggy for her constitutional walk. Let’s just say that we now know what happened to the cashews.
The ride to the beach could be a long one.