empathic nature restrained me from unleashing the full brunt of modern rodent elimination techniques.
Instead, she convinced me that we should try to live in harmony with the squirrel, at least for the winter.
In the spring, she believed, the fuzzy little creature would scamper into the forest to spend his existence in a Disney-esque fantasy
of woodland communal living. Knowing Mrs. Chef likes to think of her husband as a Sensitive New Age Guy, I agreed.
At first I thought the squirrel was just timid. When I opened the door to the garage, I would not see a squirrel, but only hear the
skittering of little paws in the shadowy rafters above my head.
I quickly learned that the bashfulness was just a trick to lull me into a false sense of complacency. Soon the animal was knocking
the lid off the trashcan, and I started discovering little piles of squirrel poo around the dogfood bins.
I realized that the squirrel and I had to come to some sort of an arrangement.
I sealed the trashcans better, making sure that the lids were down tight. I figured a two-pound critter would lack the strength to
pry off the lid of a plastic trashcan.
And I was right. Two days later, while taking out the kitchen garbage, I saw that the squirrel had chewed a hole smack-dab in the
center of the lid.
Thinking to myself that the squirrel had won this round of our mutual harmonizing effort, I rolled my eyes and lifted the lid.
And surprised the hell out of a squirrel that was still inside the can. He scrabbled up the side of the plastic, leaped to my arm,
seemed strangely startled at my scream, and then I flung him into the rafters.
I could hear him, scolding and complaining about how rude I’d behaved.
I began to see more evidence of the squirrel.
It had found a route into our mudroom, apparently to enjoy the afternoon sunshine by sitting on a windowsill and watching the
cars. I never actually saw him lounging on the sill, smoking cigarettes, drinking my beer and hurling insults at passing motorists, but
he certainly left plenty of smelly evidence that he enjoyed that particular spot.
A few weeks ago I went out into the garage and didn’t see him.
As I opened the large garage door, I realized the squirrel was sitting on the lowest section of the aluminum door. As the door
went up on the two rails, the squirrel seemed to chitter like a child at an amusement park before leaping off at the last moment and
scrambling atop a rafter. I swear I saw him pumping his fist and a high little voice seemed to be saying, “whoo-whoo-whoo.”
He was so fat that he had a triple chin.
And that’s when I sat back and really considered this whole living-in-harmony thing.
Was it worthwhile to attempt the PETA-standard of living, hoping that in some karmic way the world would repay my kindness to
these creatures by perhaps allowing me and my family to have a place to live some winter in the off-chance we ever lost our
home? Could it be, that on some cosmic scale, by allowing this squirrel to bring its filthy habits, parasite-ridden body, and
destructive tendencies into my home that I was somehow emulating St. Francis and racking up points with the Big Guy upstairs? I
imagined the greeting I might receive at the Pearly Gates as millions of squirrels gathered to welcome me into Heaven, and the
rapturous future I could look forward to by spending the rest of eternity with the grateful ghosts of all those rodents that
appreciated my goodwill.
The vision was horrifying enough that I decided to allow the husky puppy to explore the garage.
Soon she was trotting around the yard carrying the remains of my adversary and trying to convince Mrs. Chef to let her bring it
into the house. For some reason, this seemed to horrify Mrs. Chef.
There was a secret part of me that enjoyed watching her scold the dog and the canine’s puzzled look when Mrs. Chef denied her
this simple request to come into the house so that everyone in the pack could enjoy the delicious prize of her hunting skills.
I guess we all have to find our balance with Mother Nature.
Instead, she convinced me that we should try to live in harmony with the squirrel, at least for the winter.
In the spring, she believed, the fuzzy little creature would scamper into the forest to spend his existence in a Disney-esque fantasy
of woodland communal living. Knowing Mrs. Chef likes to think of her husband as a Sensitive New Age Guy, I agreed.
At first I thought the squirrel was just timid. When I opened the door to the garage, I would not see a squirrel, but only hear the
skittering of little paws in the shadowy rafters above my head.
I quickly learned that the bashfulness was just a trick to lull me into a false sense of complacency. Soon the animal was knocking
the lid off the trashcan, and I started discovering little piles of squirrel poo around the dogfood bins.
I realized that the squirrel and I had to come to some sort of an arrangement.
I sealed the trashcans better, making sure that the lids were down tight. I figured a two-pound critter would lack the strength to
pry off the lid of a plastic trashcan.
And I was right. Two days later, while taking out the kitchen garbage, I saw that the squirrel had chewed a hole smack-dab in the
center of the lid.
Thinking to myself that the squirrel had won this round of our mutual harmonizing effort, I rolled my eyes and lifted the lid.
And surprised the hell out of a squirrel that was still inside the can. He scrabbled up the side of the plastic, leaped to my arm,
seemed strangely startled at my scream, and then I flung him into the rafters.
I could hear him, scolding and complaining about how rude I’d behaved.
I began to see more evidence of the squirrel.
It had found a route into our mudroom, apparently to enjoy the afternoon sunshine by sitting on a windowsill and watching the
cars. I never actually saw him lounging on the sill, smoking cigarettes, drinking my beer and hurling insults at passing motorists, but
he certainly left plenty of smelly evidence that he enjoyed that particular spot.
A few weeks ago I went out into the garage and didn’t see him.
As I opened the large garage door, I realized the squirrel was sitting on the lowest section of the aluminum door. As the door
went up on the two rails, the squirrel seemed to chitter like a child at an amusement park before leaping off at the last moment and
scrambling atop a rafter. I swear I saw him pumping his fist and a high little voice seemed to be saying, “whoo-whoo-whoo.”
He was so fat that he had a triple chin.
And that’s when I sat back and really considered this whole living-in-harmony thing.
Was it worthwhile to attempt the PETA-standard of living, hoping that in some karmic way the world would repay my kindness to
these creatures by perhaps allowing me and my family to have a place to live some winter in the off-chance we ever lost our
home? Could it be, that on some cosmic scale, by allowing this squirrel to bring its filthy habits, parasite-ridden body, and
destructive tendencies into my home that I was somehow emulating St. Francis and racking up points with the Big Guy upstairs? I
imagined the greeting I might receive at the Pearly Gates as millions of squirrels gathered to welcome me into Heaven, and the
rapturous future I could look forward to by spending the rest of eternity with the grateful ghosts of all those rodents that
appreciated my goodwill.
The vision was horrifying enough that I decided to allow the husky puppy to explore the garage.
Soon she was trotting around the yard carrying the remains of my adversary and trying to convince Mrs. Chef to let her bring it
into the house. For some reason, this seemed to horrify Mrs. Chef.
There was a secret part of me that enjoyed watching her scold the dog and the canine’s puzzled look when Mrs. Chef denied her
this simple request to come into the house so that everyone in the pack could enjoy the delicious prize of her hunting skills.
I guess we all have to find our balance with Mother Nature.
Some may recall the story I told several months ago
about my dogs’ failed attempts to catch a family of
squirrels before they scampered up a tree.
Well, I think a relative of that family, probably the
crazy uncle who cannot keep a job or find a
girlfriend, must have read that story and mistakenly
thought the Chef home was an easy mark.
At the beginning of the winter, I noticed bits of
shredded paper and gnawed plastic around the
garbage can. I began to suspect we had a squirrel
living in our attic somewhere, probably above the
garage.
At that point, I should have immediately put out
traps in order to kill the little critter, but Mrs. Chef's
about my dogs’ failed attempts to catch a family of
squirrels before they scampered up a tree.
Well, I think a relative of that family, probably the
crazy uncle who cannot keep a job or find a
girlfriend, must have read that story and mistakenly
thought the Chef home was an easy mark.
At the beginning of the winter, I noticed bits of
shredded paper and gnawed plastic around the
garbage can. I began to suspect we had a squirrel
living in our attic somewhere, probably above the
garage.
At that point, I should have immediately put out
traps in order to kill the little critter, but Mrs. Chef's
| Squirrel Bait |
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| For the man who cooks and the women that love him |
1/2 cup peanut butter 1/2 cup salted peanuts 2 cups chow mein noodles
melt the butterscotch chips and peanut butter. While melting, you should keep stirring the mixture to keep it from burning. 2. Stir peanuts and noodles gently into the melted peanut butter mixture. 3. Drop the goop by the forkfuls onto waxed paper and let it cool. |