A lot of squirrels also live in the arboretum. I never used to think much about them. I don’t think they’re cute, the way some people seem to, but on the other hand I also never regarded them as “rats with a good publicity agent,” as the saying goes.
That is, until the furry hooligans began horning in on our goddamn bird feeders.
The first thing we noticed was that not only were the squirrels scaring away the birds, they were perching on our Droll Yankee column feeder, sometimes for hours at a time, stealing virtually all of the seed. When they were too clumsy to extricate the seed from the feeder, they gnawed on the feeder’s plastic frame, almost as if in spite. Eventually they destroyed it. So we bought a squirrel proof feeder.
For a few days it was the most entertaining thing in the world to watch. A squirrel would come swaggering up, tail high in the air, shinny up a nearby tree, and do a swan dive onto the feeder. The arrogant bastard was used to eating his fill on the previous feeder, and he had come to believe it was his God-given right to scarf down as much seed as he wanted. However, this time things were different. The minute he heaved his hulk onto the new feeder, his weight caused the feeder door to slam shut. The squirrel would wriggle all around, trying to maneuver his ungainly body into position to somehow get the feeder door to open again, but all he would succeed in doing was slipping and falling off the feeder and hitting the ground with a loud thud. Of course, since squirrels are greedy rather than analytical, he would go back, Jack, and do it all again as soon as he regained his breath. Over and over he would go through the motions of climbing onto the feeder, having the door slam shut, and wriggling around until he inevitably crashed onto the ground below. Once or twice I nearly peed my pants from laughing so hard at the comical sight of those dive bombing gluttons getting their just desserts.
This went on for a few days, and then the squirrels became a bit more acrobatic. One of them even learned to balance himself on the feeder so that the door would stay open for a split second, allowing him to snatch a couple of bites. We were concerned about this and began holding grave war councils about our next strategy.
Then, from who knows where, Fat Boy suddenly made his appearance.
Fat Boy was the most obese squirrel I have ever seen. He was nearly as big as a raccoon. He was also completely fearless. Nothing fazed him. What he lacked in brains, he made up for in chutzpah. Fat Boy made one or two tries at the squirrel proof feeder. His failures were spectacularly hilarious. He weighed so much he simply toppled the feeder, hurling himself into space and from thence onto the ground below, where he almost vanished into the snow. When he hit the deck, he splattered snow six feet into the air. Unlike the other squirrels, though, Fat Boy simply shrugged, peered around the yard with his beady little eyes, and fixed on the suet cage as his next target.
The suet cage hangs near one of our upstairs windows, just below the roof. We enjoy looking out and seeing Downy Woodpeckers, and occasionally even a big Red Bellied Woodpecker, hanging on it, hammering away at the suet, which lately has been frozen solid. The female Downies especially seem drawn to the suet when the temperature is frigid; Eric theorizes that they’re trying to keep their body weight up so they can lay eggs in the early spring. At any rate, Fat Boy was instantly attracted to the grease in the suet, and without further ado he climbed up a tree, dropped onto the roof, and jumped down on the suet cage, where he swung around, head down, like an obese orangutan. Within seconds he had buried his face in the suet, decided this was the best grub he’d ever gulped down, and had gnawed through the wire holding up the suet cage, dumping it with a crash on the ground. He then proceeded to jump down, gobble up the remaining suet, belch, and stagger away for a nap. All this in less than five minutes, mind you.
After that, Fat Boy became a far too regular fixture around our yard. He would chase birds away from the squirrel proof feeder, as if to say “if I can’t have it, neither can you...nyah!”. He would wait until no one was home to yell at him, and topple the suet cage, eat the contents, and leave it lying on the ground. Every time Eric had to replace the suet in the cage, he had to climb out of the window onto the icy roof and re-tie the knot that hung the cage from the eaves. As complicated and as strong as he made the new knots, Fat Boy always seemed to figure out how to get them untied. We were going through two and three cakes of suet a week. Every time we saw Fat Boy, he appeared to have gained another five pounds. The last time Eric had to re-tie the string, he nearly slipped and fell off the roof.
That did it. This was war!
I don’t know if you have ever had the pleasure of shooting at a fat bully of a slimy thieving squirrel with a BB gun loaded with a lead pell, but if you haven’t, take it from me, it’s something you should do at least once in your life. The first time I nailed Fat Boy it was just with an ordinary BB, but it was one of the most satisfying experiences I’ve had in years. Eric has a wonderful old Crossman BB gun, in the shape of a long-barreled pistol, which he received as a Christmas present when he was a young delinquent. It is simply a pleasure to shoot: accurate, easy to load, with a pleasing weight and feel in the hand. I keep it near the upstairs window. Beside it, I have a carton of fresh CO2 cartridges and a box of BB’s. Since the Crossman isn’t a “real” gun, you have to reload every time you shoot.
Since we aren’t using real bullets, either, we haven’t killed any squirrels. As much as I have grown to loathe them, I wouldn’t really relish actually murdering them. The BB gun is to teach them a lesson, to convince them that whenever they start eyeing the suet or the feeder, the next thing they’re going to notice is that their rear end is stinging like hell. We are betting that sooner or later, they are going to connect our yard and our bird feeders with unpleasant sensations in sensitive body parts. Squirrels, to paraphrase Mark Twain, are the sort of creatures that can only be reformed with a shotgun. In this case we’re hoping that a BB gun will prove nearly as effective.
It’s a huge task, mind you. Despite repeated hits, Fat Boy has certainly been cowed, but unfortunately not entirely beaten. Yesterday, for instance, I spent several hours carefully observing his movements from the conning tower upstairs. Whenever he appeared, I would fire a warning shot across his stern. Now whenever I slide the window open, he vanishes. However, we won’t be satisfied until he, and all his scurvy brethren, are completely vanquished from the general vicinity of the yard, and our corner of the world is once again safe for our feathered friends. It will take considerable vigilance. But I’m up to it. Fortunately, BB’s are cheap. And I haven’t had this much fun since I went around blowing things up as a kid.
War may be hell...but not this one.
