Squirrel

THE SQUIRREL CHRONICLES

Part 1: February 1997

Some days, ours is a real nut house.
Which is probably why we have squirrels.
Actually, they were under the roof before we were. For three winters, we've been trying to evict them.

The first winter, we were aggressive:
We boarded up their entrance. They broke in.
We put moth balls in the hideaway. They pushed them out. We closed the hole again, but one was inside and he broke out.
We conceded Round One.

The next year, we took the Pavlovian approach. We negatively reinforced their presence, hoping they would tire of the irritation and leave. But they stayed, had a baby, and invited the in-laws to move in.
This winter, I got help. I called exterminators. "Close the hole," they advised. "Use moth balls." (Been there, done that; didn't work.)

A friend said her father, a descendent of Davy Crockett, once talked a family of raccoons out of a house. Interesting idea. I considered installing cable and letting them watch Sally Jessy Raphael.

Eventually I went to Game, Fish and Parks for a live-animal trap. We baited it with peanuts and waited.
Within a day, the king of the clan--a portly red squirrel--found the trap. We watched expectantly as he darted about the cage. On top. Around the sides. Nose to cage. Up the tree. Back to cage. And in! Got him--YES!?

No. The trap wasn't set properly. The King went in and out with impunity, smugly cleaning up the peanut pile.
A week later his overconfidence and lust undid him. He earned himself a peanut and a free trip for one to a remote area of northern Brown County.

Last week, we caught his housemate. Mike released him east of the James River. "I didn’t know a squirrel could run that fast," he reported.

At last, the walls are quieter.
But now the kids are getting squirrelly.
Sometimes, I just can’t win.

Part 2: May 1997

The cabin fever has broken.
But our house is still nuts.
And we're still catching squirrels!
As of early last week, after approximately eight ears of corn and three-fourths of a jar of natural peanut butter, we had captured 21 red and gray squirrels.

We had driven more than 250 miles to relocate them in all quadrants of the county. Hyperactive, city-stressed squirrels are now relaxing in new homes in the country. We have taken so many east they could form the James River Squirrel Cooperative.

With each one I've thought, "Surely, this is the last." But no. There's always one more weak-willed rodent in the neighborhood who can’t resist the Peanut Butter-Corn Combo.

After two months of being the intrepid squirrel trapper here's what I've learned:
1. Squirrels are lazy. They'd rather take the risk of getting something for free than working for it.
2. Squirrels are like kids--their brains operate on delayed switches. My kids are most creative after they’ve done something wrong. Squirrels are most creative after the cage door goes down. Within moments of being caught, they figure out how the trap works. But then it’s too late.
3. Squirrels are predictable. Once they smell the bait, it becomes a question of "when," not "if." When the tail starts twitching, you may start the car.
4. It's dangerous to be ruled by lust. "When lust is conceived it brings forth death"--or in this case, deportation.

Although we suspect the squirrels we're nabbing now did not live in the house, we keep the trap open. Better they find that open door than the opening beneath the eaves. Having uninvited critters in my house is for the birds.

Or rather, now it is the birds. The other day as I was returning from a squirrel run, I saw an ugly black bird fly up the vent in the soffit.
Oh no!
Here we go again.

Part 3: September 1997

The bedroom was dark and very quiet. The clock nagged me as I struggled to wake after a fitful night.
SCRITCH! SCRATCH! A noise in the wall broke the silence.
Suddenly, a sickening thought awakened me: THE SQUIRRELS WERE BACK.

NO! It couldn’t be! The squirrels were gone. I had counted them--all 39--and marked their departures on my calendar. The holes were sealed. The SQUIRRELS were GONE! I must have been imagining it.
Then it began again. Scritch, scratch, scritch.

I thought my ears were playing tricks. Maybe someone was in the little boys' closet. I went down the hall, mouth flapping prematurely: "All right guys, who's in the closet?" When I got to the room, the answer was obvious: Nobody.

I went back to the bedroom. Scritch, scratch, scritch. There it was again!
Maybe the paperboy was in the kitchen. I went downstairs. "Hey Max--be qui---"
Again, I was premature. The kitchen was empty.

Then through the window I saw an opened stepladder on the deck.
I went to the door and hollered. "MAX??"
No answer. I closed the door momentarily--then suddenly was inspired. I went outside and looked toward my window. Sure enough. I had caught another critter!

Up on the roof, holding onto the overhang, was one embarrassed paperboy.
"Max, what ARE you doing up there?!"
"I locked myself out," he admitted. "I was trying to get in."
"How were you going to do --- ah, never mind. Just come down."

He carefully slid down the roof and sheepishly went into the house.
I followed scratching my head, amazed at the workings of the teen-age mind.
A friend had warned me that junior-highers get spacey--they forget their lunches, their homework, their jackets. She didn't tell me they also lose their good sense.

I hope he finds his soon.
If he doesn’t, I may start climbing the walls.