Rogue Squirrel

Tom Poland

Posted 7/2/24

By Tom Poland
A Southern Writer

For two summers now I have battled a rogue squirrel, and the score is squirrel 100, Tom zero. He raids my “go to” hummingbird feeder, and he practices guerilla war tactics. He jumps from camellias to swing on my feeder, and when I go for him, he vanishes into a jungle of greenery. He never climbs a tree. The clever rodent has learned that up there I can see him and I have a scope on my Daisy 180. It stings.

This cunning squirrel engages in espionage; he’s like Santa Claus. He knows when I am sleeping and he knows when I am out and about. When I return from the store, my feeder is knocked askew and sugar water is all over my deck. Well, he better watch out and he better not cry, and I’ll tell you why. Santa’s not coming to town, a new sheriff is. The insanity must stop.

A squirrel-free zone. Hopefully. (Photo by Tom Poland)

So far nothing I have done discourages him. I apologize animal activists, but BBs applied with force to his gray, fuzzy derrière only make him crave sugar water that much more. Yesterday he spilt a nice pool of sugar water on the deck and lay on his side lapping it up like a dog. When I opened the sliding glass door, he didn’t even bother to vamoose. He’s addicted. It took a round piece of copper at high velocity to send him on his way. So, animal rights types lest you decide to picket my place, know that last summer he destroyed three $39.95 feeders. He hangs onto them until the glass cracks, and then it’s a matter of time until they shatter. You tell me who’s naughty and nice.

No more nice guy stuff. Spilt sugar water is an unforgivable grievance. Here come the ants and yellow jackets. It’s a sticky mess. My rogue squirrel mayhem brings to mind a camellia breeder who wrapped green cheesecloth around his blooms. “To keep the infernal bees out. They destroy the flower kicking up their little feet like pigs in a trough. I would gladly get rid of the bees if I knew how. I’m an environmentalist but not that kind.”

Colonel Parker, I can relate. This diabolical tree rat overturns my rain gauge on a regular basis. He uprooted every one of my sunflowers three times. He overturned a flower I was rooting while I was away, killing it. I provide him seeds courtesy of the bird feeder and fresh drinking water from two birdbaths and a fountain. And what does this ingrate do? He mocks me with squawking that resembles a wooden wagon wheel in need of a few globs of bear grease.

He has declared war on me, and I am declaring war on him. Saturday morning I got up at 5:30 and sat with my Daisy waiting for him to raid my feeder at daybreak. He had done that four mornings in a row. He was a no-show. The spy knew I was there. And now the final straw. I saw him with a recruit, another tree rat, eyeing my feeder. He’s training reinforcements.

Bill Murray had his hated gopher and Colonel Connor Parker Jr. had his infernal bees. I have a rogue squirrel. Here’s the plan. I will construct a blind and blast him with a high-pressure water hose. That ought to humiliate him. I can’t dispatch him to the squirrel hereafter because the Geneva Convention prohibits that. If I can’t demoralize him, maybe he’ll get diabetes.

I refuse to take my feeders down. I get too much joy watching the hummers. Bottom line? Mr. Rogue Squirrel better be ready for a long war and if he prevails, well, he might want to order a 100-pack of disposable insulin. From Amazon, of course.


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