The Problem with Squirrels

A builder of birdhouses and filler of bird feeders, my father has dedicated much of his spare time to providing for local backyard wildlife in the winter.  

He does this very diplomatically: seed for birds, ears of corn for squirrels. 

This works just fine as our family moves from one Nebraska town to another.  Typically, one ear of corn attached to a wooden spike on a tree lasts about two weeks in the summer and about half that when the weather sinks below freezing.  

As my mother’s disease leaves her home-bound, the activity out the patio door becomes one of her favorite sources of entertainment.  And for good reason--their latest move brings them to a neighborhood of very active animals.

The corn goes virtually untouched for the first two winters.  Every few weeks a squirrel appears and picks off a dozen kernels to knock to the ground.  

Only when the bushy-tailed rodents decide the corn isn’t so bad, or their other supplier runs out, do they return with appetites.  One or two ever-fatter squirrels polish off an ear of corn per day.  

My father sets a three-ears-a-week limit, and the squirrels begin raiding the bird feeders.  Two hang from the branches of a large peach tree and a third sits atop a metal pole a short distance away. The wires connecting the feeders to the tree work perfectly for sliding, and the squirrels descend from them easily.  Using their tails as counter-balances, they dangle off the roofs of the feeders to access the seed trays and spill much of the seed on the ground.   Their constant presence prevents the usual sparrows and robins from settling, much to my father’s annoyance. 

To combat the intruders, he greases the lines and the metal pole.  This tactic fails almost immediately.  Some of the more agile squirrels shimmy up the metal pole and indulge in the seed of the solitary feeder.  Even grease on the actual feeders has no effect.

Soon, they don’t even both with the corn but stick solely to the birdseed, visiting each feeder daily.

Their antics entertain my mother until she sees my father’s irritation.  She checks out the window periodically through the day, and after noticing a squirrel hanging from the tree, she becomes agitated.

“Oh, no,” she growls, pointing her finger at the animal and giving it the same look she uses on family members who hide her candy bars.  “Don’t tell Dad.”

He finds out soon enough.  My father studies the problem for a few days, and on one frigid afternoon, he bends several square-foot sheets of metal and attaches them to the tops of the feeders.  Worried they won’t be slick enough, he polishes the domes until they are scratch-free.

My parents spend the rest of the day attentively watching from the other side of the patio door. Finally, one squirrel drops from the branch to the top of the sheet metal, then keeps going as it slides right off the side onto the frozen grass below.  It scurries a few feet, pauses to look back, then flees to the neighbor’s yard.  Satisfied with the result, my father considers the problem “solved.”

The squirrel-free feeders last about a week before my mother glances up from the newspaper and groans, “oh, them.” Sure enough, clinging to the ledge with its two back paws is a brown, furry squirrel.  It drapes itself off the side, apparently unconcerned that the feeder is now tipped almost sideways, its contents spilling all over the ground.  

 “What! How in the world…” My father barks when he notices the seed burglar.   Before his eyes pop all the way out of their sockets, he attempts to pinpoint the flaw in his “squirrel-proofing.” He wonders aloud, “How did it jump that high?”

“That’s at least three feet off the ground, Dad.  Maybe it jumped from the tree,” I respond as the animal lets go and scurries out of the yard.  “That, or you’ve got Olympic-quality squirrels.”  

“Well, I’ll be darned,” he mumbles.

A week later, we watch as a squirrel poses on a branch, takes off running, and leaps straight-on at one of the hanging feeders. It flies through the air for a few seconds before catching the perch at the bottom and grabbing it with all four paws.  

“Looks like I’ll need some more sheet metal,” my father mumbles as he visualizes new modifications.