Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
Generally speaking, my husband isn’t the kind of guy who’d go off in the woods to shoot some law-abiding moose. But he won’t put up with wild animals terrorizing his home either—particularly if you happen to be a squirrel.
Every October, a horde of uninvited squirrels arrives to winter in our attic like refugees from Jersey. For my better half, it’s a painful reminder of the time he was outwitted by the family rodent.
When Houdini, the kids’ lock-picking hamster, got stuck in the wall a few years ago, the search-and-rescue mission took three days and 27 drill holes to extract him. Hubby had just finished replacing all the sheetrock—plus sanding, priming and painting—when Houdini escaped back into the wall again.
Hubby never forgave rodent-kind. To him, squirrels are just overstuffed hamsters, whose sole evolutionary purpose is to keep Home Depot in business and prevent him from catching a NASCAR race between home invasions.
Our wildlife problems didn’t really start with hamsters. They started around 5:30 one morning with a woodpecker, which is commonly mistaken for a bird, but is really a jackhammer
with wings. The first attack began at dawn.
Before I could pry both eyes open, the man of the house had armed himself with a tennis racket and ball hopper and was off to defend his castle. Fortunately, our favorite neighbor, Billy John, was outside spewing tobacco juice and advice. (His wife doesn’t let him in much.) Being born and raised in the Pee Dee, possibly by bears, Billy John knows everything about local critters and shares his wisdom with anyone who’ll hold still.
“That woodpecker sure do like y’all’s place,” said Billy John, while launching a stream of freshly chomped tobacco into the next yard.
Hubby wasn’t listening. He was already whacking tennis balls, Andy Roddick-style, in a futile attempt to ace the bird off our house. Shingles were flying, but the woodpecker didn’t flinch a feather.
“It ain’t really your house he’s after,” Billy John tells us. “It’s them giant bees.”
Suddenly, he had Hubby’s attention. Giant bees?
Billy John explained that giant bees bore through wood to get at the insect larvae he’s sure we’re infested with. And our woodpecker “just loves to eat them bees,” which it extracts by drilling craters large enough to accommodate a bald eagle. (That’s the same tactic Hubby used to locate Houdini, but I decided not to mention it.) Hubby had heard enough about the birds and the bees. He goes for his shotgun.
The nice thing about having a neighbor like Billy John is armed men in boxers and fuzzy slippers who are ready to blow their roofs off don’t rattle him. So, I had to call the police myself.
Just as our woodpecker calls it quits, the squatter squirrels arrive with their entourage right on schedule. To them, a pre-pecked home means “Welcome! Vacancy.”
Before the rodent family can plug in their iPods, Hubby starts hurling tennis balls at the house again. But now, his eyes are spinning in opposite directions, and his neck veins look ready to pop. I don't think he’s ever turned such a festive shade of deep crimson before.
It’s a textbook case of Rodent Rage. And judging by our pajama-clad neighbors, who have come to check out the pre-coffee commotion, it’s contagious. If any moose hunters out there need company, please call me. Hubby may not help, but he’ll keep the squirrels out of your way.
Jan A. Igoe is a wife, mother newspaper editor, humorist and illustrator. She lives in Horry County.