It’s probably pretty obvious that I don’t like squirrels. I categorize them as level 2 Domestic Enemies. As a species, I guess they’re fine. They’re sort of cute, even though you can’t pet them and I’m pretty sure they’d bite you if they could.
In the town where I grew up (Princeton, NJ) there were a million squirrels and they were all very different. Brown, red, grey, black, big, small… Like an 80’s era Bennetton ad but for tree rodents. The story behind this was that a very old professor had been an expert, a squirrel scholar if you will, and when he died – they just opened the door to his lab. Then all the crazy varieties of squirrels just ran out onto campus and into town and began their slow and deliberate take-over. (At least, this is what my parents always told me, so read with a few grains of salt.) They were obviously experimented on and are now all fluffy-tailed evil geniuses. There’s no other explanation for what’s happened to the real estate prices in my town since the early 90’s. It has to be the squirrels…
|She thinks her children are |
little terror suspects. Stupid infidel!
So the first inklings of springtime do not find the squirrels in my neighborhood subdued and scrawny after a long, hard winter. They’re fighting fit (or fat) and ready to party. In years past, their favorite form of springtime entertainment has been to hide nuts in my porch planters and then wait for me to put flowers in them. Before I can wash the dirt off my hands, they come and dig my flowers up by the roots. Then they laugh. I can see them staring at me on warm sunny days, waiting for me to plant some petunias so they can kill them for sport and then flip me a tiny rodent finger.
|We seriously own|