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May 12, 2008
Bond between mothers is stronger than a vent
cover
by
Lorraine Sommerfeld
A
squirrel enjoys a meal in an urban neighbourhood
“Did you hear that?” I whispered
around midnight the other night.
“Bffmffffbbbbbbbb,” was the only
sound from the sleeping lump beside me. Poor Sod
has been working 7 days a week, and midnight
finds him suspended in some ether-like coma.
Someone could break in and safely steal his
fillings.
“Something is bowling in the
attic,” I continued. I could hear a walnut
rolling up and down the floor overhead, and so
could the cats. Happy for the extracurricular
excitement, JoJo boisterously jumped up into
Poor Sod’s sock drawer, left open 3 inches.
Unfortunately, her butt is about 6 inches wide,
and it was her inevitable five foot tumble that
finally woke him up.
“It’s squirrels,” he muttered.
“I better go up there,” and started to get up.
“You can’t do anything tonight.
We’ll deal with it tomorrow,” I told him.
“Then why’d you wake me up?”
He doesn’t recall any of this
conversation.
The next day, two cats stayed on
high alert as squirrels ran around in the attic.
We always get birds up there each spring, and
we’re too soft-hearted to turf them out. I don’t
mind squirrels outside. I mind them taking up
residence in my attic without a reservation or a
valid credit card.
After work, Poor Sod got the
ladder, a headlamp thing, a face mask and a
garbage bag. This was his squirrel hunting
uniform. As I held the base of the ladder, I
could hear a squirrel laughing. The halogen
headlamp has two settings; on one, it’s a strong
beam, on the other, it flashes like a strobe.
Accidentally hitting the wrong switch, Poor Sod
set it to pulse. I saw the light change in the
darkened attic.
“What’s going on up there?” I
called.
“Dancing With the Squirrels,
whatddya think?” he snipped. Somebody wasn’t
having a good time playing hiden-seek with a
rodent. After a spirited chase amidst rafters
and aging fiberglass insulation, Poor Sod won
and closed over the holes.
The next morning, I awoke to a
familiar scampering overhead. Sighing, I pulled
out the phonebook, realizing that Poor Sod – 1,
Squirrel – 0 had had a flag on the play. I
called Humane Wildlife Control, rather liking
the sporting chance the word “Humane” seemed to
offer. My father would have used a .22. I was
using a chequebook.
“Oh, you have to be careful with
squirrels. There’s probably babies involved, and
squirrel mothers are amazing,” said Jason.
“They’ll rip your house apart to get to their
babies. I’ll send Moe over this afternoon,” he
continued.
Moe and Guy showed up in a white
van, and proceeded to block wire over every
opening in the roof. They checked the attic;
they checked the eaves; they sprayed Eau du Stay
Away, and told me I was clear.
Poor Sod came home, and I told
him the executive decision I had made. I focused
on the babies, rather than the cost. I made him
consider the hysteria of a pregnant squirrel.
“Babies?” he asked, wide eyed.
“I don’t know nuthin’ about birthin’ babies…”
For some reason, the idea of
birds building a nest and hatching some eggs in
my attic each spring doesn’t creep me out. But
extending the same hospitality to squirrels or
raccoons wasn’t going to happen. Something I
read explained that I’m exhibiting biobigotry –
when you can like feeding chickadees, but not
crows, squirrels but not rats.
I’m feeling a sliver of guilt
about turfing a creature even the control guy
termed a “fabulous mother”. I rather like the
appellation. Maybe I’ll chew through somebody’s
roof vent to earn it myself.
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