Mar

Bob: The Squirrel You Hate to Love (7:00)

For most of my life, I have lived in country settings. While I’ll admit I’ve enjoyed the excitement and benefits of living an urban existence for a while, I am continually drawn back to the freedom and solitude found in the country.

I like having my own land and space to do whatever I want. I do tend to be overly enthusiastic about monitoring my property lines. I’ve spent countless hours marking, surveying, and pointing out the borders of my parcel to anyone who will listen. I’ve spent afternoons searching for the corner posts and tagging them with ribbons to note their locations.

Ever vigilant, my binoculars are always at the ready to spot a stranger who might be doing something in my Fallston woods. Of course, my wife will never let me forget the hours I spent watching and wondering about the very mysterious “blob” set way back in the woods during a heavy winter snowstorm…Imagine my surprise and relief when she trudged back in from the storm and told me it was a terrifying concrete block covered in snow!!!

No matter where I have lived, though, there has always been one constant: SQUIRRELS! I’m not sure how much a squirrel needs to eat to stay alive; apparently, it’s a lot. I have learned this by simply watching Bob, our current resident squirrel. After sitting and watching Bob gorge himself at our bird feeder, I’ve often hollered, “My God, Bob! How much do you need to eat!”

You can tell Bob from the other squirrels by the tiny slit in his left ear. The slit is undoubtedly from an ear tag he once wore proudly declaring him, “BIRD SEED-EATING CHAMPION OF THE PLANET EARTH!”. It doesn’t matter what I do to keep Bob out of the bird feeders; he somehow manages to figure out the obstacles and finds his way to the various feeding troughs around the farm. I’ve seen him fly through the air from tree branch to feeder. I’ve seen him scamper up a greased pole. I’ve seen him swing like a trapeze artist by his front feet to propel himself up and onto the feeder. It all would be quite entertaining if it weren’t costing me 20 bucks a week in birdseed.

My wife suggested that we give Bob his own bowl. We thought the Crate & Barrel ceramic bowl with “BOB” emblazoned on the side should do the trick. We filled Bob’s bowl with birdseed and placed it on the deck far from the bird feeder in an attempt to lure him away. It seemed to work at first. We triumphantly looked out the kitchen window to see Bob proudly sitting upright on his haunches, gnawing on a sunflower seed held adorably in his front claws.
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Bob seemed to love his personalized feeding station. At times, he invited pals Suzy and Carla to join him. I could only imagine him scampering through the woods, inviting his squirrel friends to his home at Rousedale Farm. I’m sure he mentioned that his house was like a cruise ship with buffets virtually everywhere and his very own personalized bowl!

Bob’s private buffet ended one day when his bowl was discovered by interlopers known around these parts as “The Chicken Gang.” Bob skillfully tried to fight the chickens off by ducking behind a bush, and when a chicken got close to his bowl, he jumped out to scare her. It was to no avail, and once the “Henegades” found the food source, it was all over for Bob and his friends.

Bob's Bowl — Bob’s bowl fresh from the repair shop after a Henegade uprising!

So we went from birds eating the bird food to Bob eating the bird’s food to Chickens eating Bob’s food back to Bob eating the bird’s food. I kept thinking to myself,” Really people, isn’t there enough food in the acres of woods for all of you?”

I did confuse Bob for a while by installing a flattened piece of metal stovepipe with a round hole cut in the middle to slip over the bird feeder pole. My genius only lasted for a week or so. He eventually figured out the combination to the safe by leaping from the fence surrounding the deck, flying up through the air like Super Squirrel, and landing on the feeder. It was really pretty impressive. I kept extending the pole the feeder sat on higher and higher until it was out of Bob’s flying range. I was happy with my accomplishment, which literally took days to figure out. That is until the lady of the house told me the ugly piece of stovepipe was an eyesore and had to go.

So now, quite honestly, and I hate to admit this, I have given up. Bob, Suzy, and Carla visit the feeders regularly, and I regularly chase them off. My wife accuses me of acting like an old man chasing kids off his lawn.

There’s something she doesn’t know though. While she’s at work, I play a game I invented called “Touch the Squirrel.” Much like Native American children who used to try to sneak up on unsuspecting deer to see if they could slap them on the behind before being discovered, I geniusly have created a similar challenge. However, my game equipment differs a bit from the Cherokee Nation’s. They used what they called a coup stick. The coup stick was a foot long and elaborately decorated with carvings and feathers. My coup stick is an old metal curtain rod that I have stretched out to about 4 feet in an effort to achieve the same kind of thrill. When I see Bob on the feeder, I dig down and call upon my 2 percent of Native American blood, quietly open the kitchen door, tiptoe out close to the feeder, slowly and steadily lift my curtain rod and touch Bob on the butt. I seldom achieve my goal before he scatters, leaving me standing there with a mouthful of sunflower seeds covered in a cloud of birdseed dust, but let me tell you, when I do, the thrill of victory is exhilarating.

It’s become a love/hate relationship with Bob. On days when I haven’t seen him, I begin to worry that something may have happened to him. I ask my wife,” Have you seen Bob today?” She says she hasn’t. I begin to scan the woods. Could a hungry skunk have mauled Bob? The concern starts to build until, ah, there he is, bounding at breakneck speed towards the bird feeder so I can chase him off again.

And so it goes, I lure Bob in with food, Bob fills his cheeks, I try to touch him on the butt with a curtain rod, and everybody’s happy!