Nonfiction

Squirrely

I didn’t sleep last night. Again.

It wasn’t because I didn’t want to. I did. And it wasn’t for lack of trying.

It wasn’t menopause, sleep apnea, restless leg syndrome or my wild imagination. It wasn’t a boy-toy, or from drinking too much wine with the girls after work. No, my lack of sleep last night was directly related to squirrels.

Squirrels have invaded. Yes, those cute, hairy critters that at the age of thirteen I hand-fed peanuts to at the neighbourhood park, oblivious to the fact they could have been carriers of serious animal-borne diseases like rabies, or that one day they would keep me up at night by scurrying around the inside walls of my home.

This annoyance is not only affecting me. It also drives the homeowners, Pete and Georgina, who live below me, mad. Pete spends hours circling the house, ladder in tow, looking for portals into and out of the house. He hopes to block off access once the squirrels come out. Yesterday, Pete captured who we think is the mother. He drove her twenty minutes one way to the forested UBC Endowment Lands so she could set up a new domicile. Soon afterward however, we discovered there are babies. Of course there are, because nesting is the reason squirrels go in to household nooks and crannies in the first place.

The mere suggestion of baby squirrels stuck in the walls of the house without their mother makes us all maternal maniacs. Entries once blocked are re-opened. Ramps are built with gentle slopes that lead these poor, motherless infant rodents to cages filled with sawdust, nuts and a peanut butter-laced latch. We feel hopeful that this furry family will soon be reunited in some pine tree overlooking Spanish Banks, perhaps a view of the ocean, with acorns galore. We retire for the night knowing we’ve done the right thing.

But, when the sun just crests the horizon, the racket begins, an irritating scratching, prying, scrambling on miniature clawed feet. It is 5 a.m. Georgina hits the ceiling with what sounds like the end of a broomstick. She is hoping to scare them off. However, it happens to be the floor upon which my bed rests, and at 5 AM I am in it. There is a moment of stillness before the incessant noise picks up again. I punch the wall above my head hoping my thumping will frighten them off. Instead, those pesky four-legged critters chew more fervently, as if we were an audience, urging them on. I suppose in a sense we are.

Soon I realize there are more than a few frisky wee-ones trapped inside. There are dozens, babies, adolescents, grown-ups, all tapping out duets on a two-by-four at the head of my bed. Aunts, uncles, cousins, boyfriends, they’ve all moved in.

I prop myself up on a feeble elbow to the tune of a full percussion orchestra, timpani, snare drums and cymbals blaring in my ears as razor sharp teeth play against a drainpipe or metal siding. It’s too early in the morning to tell which, but it’s not too early to know that these buskers have got to go.

I’m up, out of bed, and pace the room, wide-awake and not happy about it. I walk to the kitchen. Scuffling follows. I ease into the living room, then dining room as tiny, clawed feet scurry in every direction. It feels like Rocky The Flying Squirrel and his cohorts are taking over. I make a mad dash back my bedroom, jump into bed, burrow down under the covers and plop two pillows over my head. Ahhh, peace at last, but now I can’t breathe. Pillows are hurled across the room just as the nibbling ensemble crescendos and my head flops onto an unforgiving mattress in frustration.

A full mid-morning sun now streams in through my window as I rise and drag my sleep-deprived butt into the kitchen. While waiting for coffee to brew, I rest my head on the countertop and look out through puffy eyes. Green shoots climb up the outer shingles of the house just outside the French doors. They are laden with purple clematis in a full May bloom. Through the foliage, two beady eyes stare back. I bolt upright, barely able to contain my fury. A fuzzy black squirrel sits on my sill glaring at me or, more likely my bowl of whole grain muesli. The nerve.

I can hear Pete clamber around the back of the house dragging the ladder. He is determined to set a new series of congenial traps to capture these irritating creatures and set them free in the wilds, before blocking more holes in the siding of the house. Meanwhile, I am busy plotting my own revenge.

I shimmy into blue jeans, pull a t-shirt over my head, slip on my flip-flops and grab my purse and keys. Forgive me Michael Moore. Forgive me Pete and Georgina. But I’m off to find a Wal-Mart that will sell me a BB gun with enough ammunition to last until winter.