I won the battle of the squirrels. Admittedly, I had some help from the al Qaeda Cat, my wife's big, yellow tom who terrorizes the neighborhood and my lab, leader of the Black Dog Patrol, but it was a victory nonetheless. Some of you may recall the story. Every last morsel of birdseed was being stolen by the rascally rodents, denying me the pleasure of photographing our feathered friends from the comfort of my deck. War was declared. Battles were won and lost. The mission seemed in jeopardy when I, the Camp Commander, was relieved of my weapon of mass destruction, a B-B gun, by Madame General and stripped of my rank. However, technology, as it often is, was the eventual deciding factor. Imagine my glee upon discovering a true, squirrel-proof feeder at the local supply dump, Wal-Mart. This ingenious device had a spring loaded feeding perch engineered with such precision that a bird could feed normally while the weight of any potential thieving squirrel would CLOSE the feeder holes. I must admit to having spent many delightful hours with my two comrades, sitting on the deck with our rations, laughing hilariously as those silly squirrels tried in vain to overcome skill and science.
SHOCK AND AWE! That was my feeling when one morning, to my utter dismay, I found my new highly engineered squirrel-proof feeder lying smashed ON THE GROUND. To further frustrate the squirrels, I had suspended it between two trees with some old two-stranded wire that seemed reasonably sturdy but the wire had been snapped in two! The feeder had suffered considerable damage with bent and twisted metal but looked repairable. What had happened? Tracks in the soft ground gave the answer. Raccoons! Once again, I was under attack. There could be no other response than to declare an entirely new state of emergency. It would be called Operation Feeder Freedom.
A battle plan was formed and reviewed. A trip back to the supply dump was made for the purchase of heavier wire. But there was still the question of how the attack had been carried out. How had they reached their target? Had the masked marauders leaped from the nearby trees? That had to be it. Grabbing the old chainsaw and feeling a bit like Rambo, I went into a flurry of pruning frenzy. Branches, limbs, and leaves fell at my feet, leaving a section of the campground looking a bit like the aftermath of an Oklahoma tornado.
The next morning dawned cloudy and quiet, too quiet. Hope for a clear and decisive victory was dashed when once again, the feeder was found bent and broken in a heart-wrenching scene of destruction. Every last sunflower seed was gone, devoured in a fit of raccoon gluttony.
I called for a conference with Madame General and explained the situation. As we have all been recently reminded, no war goes as planned. This one was no different. More funding was needed as well as more troops (sound familiar?). Once again, I called upon my two trusted soldiers for backup.
But just as with the United Nations, I got no help. Nothing. The al Qaeda cat couldn't be aroused from his perpetual nap and the Black Dog simply stared at his food bowl and salivated. The message was clear. "Hey, it's not our war. You're on your own here Pal."
However, another trip to the supply dump, Home Depot in this case, provided a possible solution. I found what looked to be the ultimate weapon, a live trap - a simple but effective device. The coon goes in the door, trips the trigger with the bait, and the door slams shut behind him. Since no harm would come to the animal, this method was well received by Madame General, a card-carrying member of the Humane Society. Even my rank of Camp Commander was restored.
Now brimming with confidence, I placed the trap directly under the re-hung feeder, baited it with cat food, and went inside to wait. Less that an hour had passed when I heard a scream from Madame General. "YOU IDIOT, YOU CAUGHT MY CAT!" The al Qaeda cat was indeed, trapped. And to put it mildly, a wee bit upset with me. He knew, as did I, that revenge, when it came, would be swift and terrible.
A glance at the trap on the morning after revealed the obvious the plan had failed. Not only was there no raccoon but the bait was gone as well. I obviously needed better intelligence (as does certain other organizations these days}. It was then I remembered an old warrior friend who had done battle with this enemy before. "The raccoons' little paws are small enough to reach through the wires on the trap," he said. "You have to use some boards to shield the area around the bait." This was surely the answer. I cut some boards, tightly wired them into place, giggled, and went to bed.
Next morning. No raccoon. No bait. The sly varmint had outwitted the Camp Commander by simply tipping the cage over on its side and stealing the bait from the BOTTOM no doubt doing a considerable amount of giggling himself.
Got a long stake. Hammered stake though cage into ground. No more tipping.
Next morning. VOILA! GOT HIM! VICTORY IS MINE! HOOOAHH. Cautiously, I loaded the trap into the old pickup and relocated the snarling but defeated demon to a small, quiet lake some five miles from home. As he scurried toward the safety of the woods, I was moved to give him a small but snappy salute of respect. "Farewell my friend. You fought the good fight."
One week later:
In front of the TV with my wife and her cat,
I had just closed my eyes for a short little nap.
When out on the deck there arose such a clatter,
I jumped out of my chair to see what was the matter.
No, it wasn't a reindeer nor squirrel or raccoon.
And I could just make it out in the light of the moon.
But there, in the plants, peeking out from the blossoms,
Stood a brand new intruder,
A grinnin' ol' possum.
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