. . . I think I'd have to shoot a bunch of squirrels. There's no shortage of them and they're just bushy-tailed tree rats intent on pissing me off.
This year's batch of suburban rodents enjoys digging around in my potted plants and hanging baskets. Burying a nut? Exhuming a nut? Do they know the difference? Just yesterday, I discovered a good-size hole in the center of a previously pretty basket, with a pile of dirt and destroyed flowers on the patio below. Hey, thanks.
All squirrels build nests, but the ones at work in yard must be the worst engineers of the entire species. They always pick the worst spots, where their half-assed constructions are guaranteed to come tumbling down. Instead of schlepping all those branches and leaves all the way up to the tree tops, they could save themselves time and trouble by dumping them directly into the middle of the yard -- that's where they'll wind up anyway. And that's where I'll pick up the mess. Thanks again.
I remember Ben Wade, a neighbor from my youth. He may have had the right idea. Back then, the damn squirrels pissed off Old Ben just like they do me today. So he'd set out a baited cage-trap, and he always snagged a few squirrels. Then he'd put the caged squirrels into a large canvas bag, attach the bag to the tailpipe of his car, and start it up. In a few minutes, the exhaust fumes had done their job and Old Ben had himself a sackful of freshly-gassed squirrels. And then . . . I don't know what the hell he did.
What does one do with a bag of dead squirrels? Maybe Old Ben didn't have the right idea after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment