The Running of the Squirrels

I discovered early in life that people are inherently who they are.  And, that even if you think that you can change them - you can't. You have to surround yourself with people whose crap you can deal with as long as the wonderful outweighs the baggage.  I truly believe that. 

Until it was my turn.

I have always been someone that saves bugs and animals.  Instead of killing an animal, I would shoo them outside and set them free to live out the remainder of their time here on Earth. They would chirp songs of gratitude and do some of my laundry in return.  I did my best to dodge animals crossing the road and followed Bob Barkers constant reminders to have my pets spayed or neutered. 

And then I moved to California and shit went down.

The girls and I spend the vast majority of our day outside.  I mean, we are in fabulous weather central - how could we not?  Our house has an amazing backyard - so it's no wonder venomous predators stake out this territory. But, along with the tarantulas, black widows, "ebil zombie cwickets" and nearby rattlers, we have squirrels. Not rabid squirrels. Not ebil zombie squirrels. Just plain ol' squirrels. Nothing even remotely exciting. 

For a little while it was kind of cute to watch the squirrels play in the trees along my backyard.  They scamper across the "squirrel highway" (our fence) and jump around. Adorable, right?  Until they started to get REALLY brazen.  They began to run closer and closer until they were right on the porch.  One of them drank my only Diet Coke.  I probably wouldn't have minded if it was a Mountain Dew.  But my last Diet Coke???  Plus, once you offer them a cold beverage it's all over.  The next thing you know they're sleeping on your pull-out, renting porn and storing bad beer in your fridge "just for a few nights." I'm all set with that.  

This naïve New England girl tried to shoo them away.  They just looked at me like "You have GOT to be kidding."  Ok.  I researched humane ways to rid our yard of the pesky squatters.  Sites recommended hot pepper flakes or soap to keep them out because "they don't like the smell of it on their fur".  An hour later they're making chili and taking bubble baths in our fountain.

So, the girls and I chased them - thinking they would run away and stay in the trees where we couldn't reach them.  Instead, it became a game of squirrel tag.  Unfortunately the squirrels were "it" and we were running the hell away from our furry adversaries.  Fine.  You wanna play that way? Game on.

The next time the squirrels were in the yard I picked up a rock and chucked it.  Normally I couldn't hit the Coliseum with a rock even if I were close enough to lick it. (Which I have been advised against doing by my friend Maureen who has actually licked it and lived to tell about it).   Anyway, I chucked a rock at the squirrel and I FREAKIN HIT IT.  I just about keeled over from shock.  I couldn't have hit it if you paid me a million dollars to do so.  But this time, I bonked it right in the squirrel belly. 

Instead of running away - she put her paws on her fat furry squirrel hips and said "Oh no you DIDN'T." Then she just swung her tail in my direction and then gave her gang sign to the squirrel posse.

Oh. Snap.

The flood gates opened and I was in the middle of my own Pamplona.  Squirrels are coming at me from all angles.  My yard was a free all-you-can-eat-buffet squirrel stampede.  They were sitting IN my potted plants because now the restaurant was standing room only.   High on squirrel power coupled with peyote from the succulents, we watched the uninvited guests hurl and smash the terracotta. It exploded into a rodent riot right before my eyes. Within moments, all my plants were decimated like a salad bar at Ruby Tuesday's.  A random woodchuck was using a cactus thorn as a toothpick.  Dude, you're not even a squirrel.  He shrugged and showed me the invite he pulled off the board at the college down the street.   Something inside me broke.

I tied a bandana around my head, streaked Bad Gal Lash under my eyes (which highlighted the feral look in my eyes) and grabbed the big guns.  Literally.  I pocketed a can of Skoal and a few nips of Jack and head out back.

Well, it's just me and my trusty old Red Ryder carbine-action, 200-shot, range model air rifle. Lucky I got a compass in the stock.

My husband comes out on the porch.  "What the hell are you doing with my air rifle?  Give that to me.  You'll shoot your eye out."

Damn. 

I hand the squirrel eliminator to him, head back inside to trade my Jack for a flute of Veuve and get the girls to start coloring targets for practice.

Long story short - some very lucky relatives are getting fancy hats for Christmas.  My husband is on order to bag a few more for the holidays.

Christmas came early this year, kids.  Now, eat up.  Yer squirrel's gitten cold.