Squirrel Battles

We live in the suburbs on a nicely wooded lot in a neighborhood we love. The birds sing, the bunnies hop, and it is not at all unusual to see a family of deer strolling through the yard as we walk out to get the newspaper in the morning. It is a bucolic setting that surrounds and comforts us, an insulation from the chaos beyond our gate.

One of the first things we did upon arriving here many years ago, was to hang a bird feeder. We set it just outside the window by our kitchen table, and the sweet little birds that gathered each day delighted us. Cardinals, finches, chickadees and many others flocked to the simple feeding tube, which we faithfully filled with the best black-oiled sunflower seeds we could find.

And then the squirrels arrived. At first we didn’t mind as they helped themselves to a nibble or two in happy harmony with our winged friends. But as time went on, things began to get ugly. The greedy squirrels began to monopolize the food source, scaring the timid little birds away.

We struck back. We acquired a high tech, battery operated, Yankee Trader Squirrel Flipper. It still had the pretty tube, but the metal resting place was designed to rotate rapidly and toss any creature that weighed more than a pound or so. We were in business. We roared with laughter as the little buggers were foiled time and time again in their efforts to drain our seed. Ha, ha! Take that, evil tree rats!

But hunger is a powerful motivator. Somehow the members of the on-going parade of rodents discovered that if they persisted long enough, the battery would wear down, pause, and finally die so they could empty its contents again. They would dig their little squirrel toenails into the wood of our deck railing, stretch their scrawny arms out and hold on to the metal perch for dear life until it yielded to their labors. I pictured them going back each day to squirrel headquarters, reporting their progress to a potbellied commander in military garb who chomped fiercely on a smelly cigar. “Aye General, we took casualties, but I think the next brigade should accomplish the mission,” one would say, while massaging his bruised shoulder.

We yelled at them, we banged on the window; we released our dogs to frighten them away. But the reinforcements appeared in an endless procession and the birdseed disappeared ever faster. Finally, my husband discovered a way to raise the contraption just beyond their reach. Victory again for the humans!

The score is now Humans-2, Squirrels-1, and it is embarrassing to admit how proud we are of our triumph. For a day or two, peace returns to the scene and we smile contentedly at one another over our breakfast cereal. Then we notice a lone four-footed scout sitting on the deck. Just sitting. He does not attempt to reach the seed, he does not move, he just sits with his back turned to us, appraising the latest development. After a few moments, he scurries away. My husband and I exchange a glance. We may have won the battle, but the war rages on.