The Squirrel Chronicles – the end?

The baffler has baffled the damnsquirrel!

Not that he’s giving up.  At this very moment he is sitting sulkily on the bluebird house, pondering the situation.

When Huckleberry Crusoe (aka Dearly Beloved) returned from the beach yesterday, he was horrified at how disrespectful the damnsquirrels had become in his absence.   He was right.  The little sumbitches knew they were winning the war.  And have no doubt, it has definitely been war.

Yesterday, when Miss Piggy and I went for a walk, there were nine–count ’em–NINE squirrels in the yard across the street.  They pointed and snickered when we passed.  NAH, nah, nah, NAH, nah.

Little bastards.

I have been so humiliated I couldn’t bring myself to write about my failures.  After the baffle didn’t keep them away from the feeder, I pulled out the only artillery left in my arsenal:  my stash of plastic jugs I have been collecting to use for watering my plants when I’m going to be gone for several days.  (I can punch a small hole in one and set it near my plant to do a slow drip.)

Picture a row of milk jugs lined up on the porch rail, filled with just enough water to give them throwing heft.  If I had been able to bean a few, it might have made a difference, but my aim was so poor, the damnsquirrels didn’t even bother to run when I let ’em fly.

I can’t throw worth a damn.

Only when I ran outside, shrieking and waving another jug, would I get any notice.  The damnsquirrel would shrug and reluctantly shimmy down the pole.  Even then, he would swagger over to lean against the basketball goalpost while I threw my hissy fit.  Finally, he would climb the oak tree, smirking just out of reach, while I banged against the tree with my milk jug.

I’m lucky that no one called the police about the pajama-clad woman standing in her driveway, looking wild-eyed and hysterical as she yelled threats and beat on a giant oak with a milk jug.

Dearly Beloved kept abreast of my efforts–and my failures–while he was away and had hinted that perhaps I was over-reacting.  However, he hadn’t been back home 20 minutes before he was out there hollering and tossing a broom, javelin-style, at one of the little varmints.  (He says he missed by only a squirrel hair and they now run when they see him.)

This morning we were having coffee and standing together, looking out the sunroom window when we got lucky and saw the damnsquirrel’s sneaky route.

The scene of the crime.

The little turd went up the back feeder pole that holds the thistle seed he doesn’t like and JUMPED from the top of that post over onto the suet feeder hanging on the destination post.  From there, it was easy for him to climb up and over to start draining the feeder.  I’ll have to admit that it was an impressive leap.  The little bastard gets points for ingenuity.

DB took that to mean that the baffle had confounded them, since they were finding new routes to circumvent it by coming up and over with an aerial attack.  SO, he has now moved the thistle feeder far enough away that even if a caped Supersquirrel is out there, he can’t make that leap.

Thus, the sulky stance on the bluebird house.

Dearly Beloved and I are giddy with success (actually, he says I may be giddy, but he’s cocky) but we aren’t taking anything for granted.  I wouldn’t be surprised to look out and see nine squirrels, totem-pole style, with Beelzebub on top, shaking seeds out of the feeder.

DB says they’re way beyond that.

He claims he saw a crew of them working with a slide rule and Stadiametric rangefinder.

Bring it on,  you little bastards.