Squirrels are my latest rant. We are infested with them in our yard! Apparently that fat squirrel wasn’t just enjoying the pickings of our compost pile… she was out swinging the cat around a couple months ago and now we have 10 squirrels where once there were three.
Word must be out on the maple limbs that our yard is the place to be. The huge maples overhead have been dropping their helicopters in earnest, and all day long (I surmise… no nanny-cam installed yet) the little buggers squat around the driveway, snacking and digging. When they get bored eating their weight in helicopter nuts (not the technical name, I don’t think), it’s about time to dig random holes in my flower bed and chews the tops off of my potted flowers.
This morning, heading out for my walk, however, we had two white squirrel visitors from down the street. I know they don’t live in our trees, because I’ve seen Mamma Honky (my affectionate name for her) bounding around a block away, around the corner.
Also, our plain and pesky passel here never bothers to run away when I shout and scamper at them, flailing my arms. These little whites took off as soon as the front door opened.
I could, I suppose, move off the brown and grays like they do in Olney, Illinois, and see if I can make Stratford the sixth-next World’s Home of the White Squirrels.
I like the white squirrels, but I don’t much care for squirrels. There’s the conundrum. I can’t seem to eat the icing without having to eat the cake too. But I can’t bring myself to idolize the “better half” of a community that seems to be placed in my yard strictly to dig holes in my sanity.
So, too bad white squirrels. By luck of genetics, you might be revered in Olney, Marionville, Kenton, Brevard or Exeter, but around these parts, I am the arm-flailing, rock-throwing sheriff … you better watch where you dig or you might just find yourself in a whole heap o’ trouble.