Whatever on earth made me love squirrels in the first place is a moot point. Now I hate them. Now I hate them so much, I am dreaming of their demise. I’m looking up squirrel “solutions” and debating whether I have the stomach for such action. Probably not. But it is cathartic to imagine their last breath.
This started like most marriages. The lust phase where the little critters could do no wrong. I’d run into the bedroom to watch them bounce and flip and lick the window in what at first appeared to be an act of trying to kiss my kitty (who was always freaking out at the sight of them, though that seemed to enhance the experience). I thought they were becoming friends.
But then once they got my heart in their spindly little clutches, they became demons. I mean seriously. Their whole personas changed. They were more fidgety and aggressive. Their tails seemed to never stop swirling, and like those possessed in horror movies, they became capable of walking up-side-down, sticking tightly to whatever their little claws touched. They mastered the art of emptying the bird feeder in minutes. They learned to fly great distances to get to the bird food no matter where I hung the feeder. They clawed apart my screen, threw the glass lid off the bird-food reserve container, which had to have been a tag-team effort because the lid weighed at least four pounds, and then somehow learned to mock me with their deer-in-the-headlights look as I lunged toward them, flapping my arms and screaming for them to LEAVE.
So I found our BB gun. I loaded it. And I have begun shooting. I have now hit one or two, but never getting more than a passing glance of annoyance from my target. If it’s possible, I believe they’ve called in support from neighboring squirrel populations because now I count nine, and there used to be five.
I caught one in the flower basket with the bird nest and that was the last straw. I will start with a humane trap and drive them to the county line. I will also cut the limbs of the trees where they nest closest to my house. And if that doesn’t stop the madness, I may just go to Wal-Mart and buy a real weapon. I am, after all, the one with the opposable thumb.