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RUNTY SQUIRREL WINS MOTHBALL WAR
A ragged piece of roofing material PLOPS to the wooden deck attached to our home. The rough-surfaced grey material is heavy. It lands inches from my feet. It misses my head.
I quickly gaze skyward to see how this can happen. Peeking down at me from the roof is Runty Squirrel, a grizzled denizen of the ‘hood. Runty has just chewed loose another tile. At this rate Runty will soon make happen a nice new portal to the heavens.
Before I can react, Runty twitches, seems to gesture, darts away. In my imagination he’s mocking me, daring to risk another attack on the house.
Through the years, our ancient dwelling has experienced dozens of sieges from Runty and his gang. We’ve spent lots of loot on bloodless but unsuccessful defense strategies. Done much research and heard mostly hilarious but improbable solutions from folks who want to help but who don’t understand the nature of squirrels.
I am now philosophical about these critters. I sense that they recognize us as pesky invaders of the hills and valleys of Alabama. After doing battle with them I also realize that we are indeed interlopers. Humans come and go. Squirrels remain and bide their time, awaiting the day we’ll become nomads and leave them to their territory.
Wise and kindly thoughts such as these do not address my problem. I need to protect my home and family. I need to find a way to co-exist with Runty and company. l won’t destroy Runty’s nests if Runty won’t destroy mine.
So, I try one more strategy. I understand that, like me, squirrels hate the odor of mothballs. Indeed, word is that squirrels will move their nests away from any mothball-infested area.
This sounds too good to be true, but it is disguised as a simple and inexpensive solution to a mighty perplexity.
To make an already too-long story shorter, I obtain mothballs, clamber into the dusty attic, scatter the small naphthalene spheres all over the place, and smugly report to Liz that I think the infestation may soon be over. And, as a fictitious version of H.G. Wells once said, “The first man to raise a fist is the man who’s run out of ideas.” I’m bragging that I did not have to raise my fist.
Late that night, and many nights thereafter, I toss, turn, moan, cuss, and regret that I ever heard of mothballs. Their odor is powerful, offensive, probably dangerous to mere human me. They obviously have no effect on the squirrels, who still inhabit their nests.
I picture Runty and brood partying and dancing while nibbling pecans and mothballs as appetizers.
I concede defeat.
Liz finally makes the Inevitable Call. A nearby specialist is known far and wide as the Infestation Terminator.
Within days, he has sealed up egress, ingress, portal, exit, entrance…any place a squirrel can find access to us. The squirrels move out. I enter my usual Denial Mode, refusing to consider any possibility that tiny lives may have been snuffed out in the process. Hopefully not.
I still see Runty and his progeny circling the house, running along power lines, leaping from limb to limb, barely escaping feral cats, occasionally gesturing to me.
I can at least entertain the fantasy that we are co-existing. I can accept the fact that we will be long gone someday, that squirrels will continue resisting and existing.
Who knows? We could someday be Squirrel Planet Three. Long after human time has played out
© Jim Reed 2021 A.D.
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