Thursday, 8:45 AM. 15 degrees, wind NW, blustery, The channel is obscurred, the sky is overcast, it is snowing and the barometer predicts more of the same.
Yesterday’s blog regarding my battle with squirrels jogged my memory regarding similar wars waged by my late father-in-law in West Allis, Wisconsin some years back. Sam’s frustration was certainly equal to mine, although his tactics were different, and turned up a few notches. His response to a squirrel in the bird feeder was to live trap it and transport it in the trunk of his car, mob style, to a large park several miles away and release it.
Unfortunately, by the time he arrived back home (with a possible stop at Hank and Maddies Tavern on the way back) the feeder was usually again occupied by a squirrel, and the operation would be repeated. Whether it was the same squirrel returning very quickly, or a different squirrel was impossible to tell without painting the squirrel’s tail, which Sam did not care to do, perhaps not wishing to be responsible for creating a new breed of squirrels with colored tails. At any rate, I finally convinced him that there were countless squirrels waiting for the opportunity to occupy his bird feeder, a veritable ecological game of musical chairs. He at last gave up and left his feeder unfilled for a long time, but perhaps lacking enough to do in retirement, expanded his war games to the chipmunk population. He never won that war either, even though he employed much sterner measures with the new foe. There are life lessons herein as well, although I haven't deciphered them as yet.
Grandpa always painted the squirrels and tracked their return. He was retired of course.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad Sam was not alone in his endeavors
ReplyDelete