Last week, Doris Rose wrote about a little incident she’s having with critters setting up house among the insulation of her pool, and making themselves a snack of the plumbing while they’re at it.
I can sort of relate. We have a famblee of squirrels who for the past nine months have nestled their homey headquarters somewhere in the insulation of our outdoor swim spa as well. Thankfully, they have yet to gnaw their way through any of the piping.
But that doesn’t mean they’re not causing Moi to stamp her feet in frustration. That’s because, as SB is fond of saying, I insist on establishing Snow White’s freakin’ fairy land around here. I mean, why eat PVC when you can nosh luxuriously on $5 bazillion a pound gourmet birdseed?
Yeah, yeah. I bought a squirrel-proof feeder. But this is how the relationship between Moi and technology usually goes: I buy the correct thing, but then I position it improperly. So, no, the squirrels most definitely cannot climb the feeder. But they can drop down on it from on high. And yes, there has been talk of moving it . . .
Given that SB has himself a shiny new toy, I suggested that perhaps we should just go ahead and kill the little fuckers.
After all, while I love all of God’s chillrun (well, except cockroaches and politicians), I am not above putting them out of Moi’s misery under two very specific circumstances:
1. My life is in immediate, you-can-for-damn-sure-bet-on-it danger. But that’s never really happened. (I don't count the time I was vacationing in Bermuda and had the bad luck to sit my bikini bottomed ass on a patch of ground wherein lived a particularly virulent band of Bermudan Fire Ants who promptly bit me to hell, causing me to spend the rest of my gloriously sunshiny days fighting a fever and stomach cramps. But you know, what was I going to do? Hobble over to the nearest food vendor and scream, “Raid, my good man; I need a can of Raid!”?)
2. When I’m hungry. Look, I did not stagger my way up the food chain in these here high heels only to be presented with nothing but vegetables. However, I do not take being a carnivore lightly or for granted. Instead, I like to take what I call a Sioux Indian/Fat Bastard approach to meat-eating. In other words: "Thank you O Great Creator for the bounty you have bestowed upon this earth and thank you O Great Angus Beef Dude for giving your life and hide so that I may live and also look stylish whilst doing so. Now, get in mah belly (preferably with a nice side order of garlic mashed potatoes and a perky Riesling.)"
But no. SB won't kill the squirrels. And not because, silly, you don’t hunt squirrels with a Winchester rifle. But because:
1. “You know you’ll just end up crying like a pansy ass girly-girl.”
2. “Besides, you don’t know how to cook squirrel.”
Except, wait! What’s this? Oh, my. I almost forgot what my in-laws bestowed upon Moi for Christmas:
And lookie here: