Earth Day encounter offers a tenuous truce

At risk of being tagged as “that guy who writes about squirrels all the time,” I proceed at my own peril. My last squirrel-centric column was submitted a mere three weeks ago. And even though that particular piece was focused primarily on post-mortem specimens — and my dog Frank’s ongoing fascination with them — I did spend a good bit of page space passively declaring my longstanding disdain for the species.

Much of that is based on ongoing experiences at my small-town estate. Here, the squirrels gobble my green things, divot my yard and make it darn near impossible to harvest even a single ripe blueberry from my struggling young bushes.

Once through wreaking havoc in the name of nuts and berries, they retire to the trees, which crown only a short hop away from the roof of my house. Any expanse that can be bridged by a leap automatically becomes a part of the overhead squirrel highway.

My roof is an outpost. There, against the chimney, inside the soffits or huddled in a clandestine coven among the nooks and crannies of the dormers, the furry-fingered filchers draw up plots against my kingdom. Had I been a flea on the fur of Rat Tail, their mangy-maned kingpin, I may have been able to thwart the attack on my heritage Indian corn a few years ago that wiped out my entire crop over the course of just two days. That assault could have ended 12 years of continuous cultivation had I not held onto a handful of kernels after the spring planting.

All of this is to say I am not some crazy old codger railing against a myth of mischief. My grievances are well-founded. My anti-squirrel bias has been justified, and I have carried that sentiment to the autumn woods, where I’ve sought to make soup of my nemesis and completed the deed with glee on many occasions. (Squirrel gravy over mushrooms and rice is an even more delightful dish, but “making soup of” seemed more dastardly and appropriate here.)

Given the long and rich history of mutual disrespect, I was thoroughly surprised at the situation confronting me last week on the very date the world was celebrating Earth Day. As I rounded the corner to enter my office door, a baby squirrel stood peering in through the smoked glass. Wide-eyed, pointy-eared and hopelessly bushy-tailed, his paws seemed too big for his body as he wobbled straight to my feet. There he paused to look up at me and consider my pant legs as twin trees.

Rather than contemplate the fact that he could easily ascend my torso and lay a fatal fang-punch to my carotid, I froze like a stump. Behold, the child of my nemesis, heir to the throne of a wire-chewing, chimney-plugging, garden-raiding empire. The infant stood innocently at the treacherous heel of my boot.

I was instantly smitten. Aside from my own granddaughter, it was the most adorable creature I’ve ever encountered. Eventually, after a moment of speechless détente, I snapped a quick photo and shooed the toddler along its way, back to the foot of the nearby oak from which it had likely strayed.

If one wishes to wage war, send men, but if peace is the desired outcome, children may be much better suited for the job. (The photo tells the story so well I gave Kristin the week off.)

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.