The Ordeal

If you are interested in a good laugh, ask me how I know that squirrels can fly. Even I can laugh about it now that the whole mess is behind us. My husband, on the other hand, is not yet inclined.

It started a week ago when I began hearing odd bumps, clanks, and clinks around the house. The women reading this will immediately relate when I say that we are not always taken seriously about such matters. After the first fifteen minutes of marriage, we start getting comments like “That’s nice, honey. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

And in that spirit, “nothing”, in the form of a very agressive squirrel, showed up in a big way in my living room last Saturday morning, knocking over one of my lamps as he went airborne from the console table in my front window.

Being the only one awake at that hour, there was nothing to do but scream. Alerting the world to the presence of wild animals is where my job begins and ends. Actually dealing with them, however, is the province of those who routinely pat me on the head when I hear noises. When the screaming apparently had no effect on Mr.Nothing except to make him fly higher and faster, I retreated to the bedroom.

“GET UP! GET UP! THERE’S A *#@! squirrel in the living room!!!”

Joe was actually already up, slowly peeling himself off the ceiling. At least the screams had an effect on somebody.

As I have explained in previous posts, my husband is not a morning person. Last Saturday morning was no exception, but I will give credit where it is due. He made it into the living room in record time, with me holding on to the back of his T-shirt and using him as a human shield in case our friend was still flying the friendly skies.

And of course the squirrel was gone - nowhere to be seen.

“Are you sure about this?” asked the man who had not experienced a squirrel sailing across the living room aiming for his head. I pointed to my downed lamp. “Yes. I am sure. He was climbing the front windowpanes trying to get out and I startled him. That’s when he came flying toward me.”

(As a side note, here, you know those scenes in the movie Christmas Vacation when the squirrel goes airborne? Yeah, those were not special effects.)

For the next hour we combed the entire house, checking every conceivable hiding place. There was only one other possibility left, which was our upstairs guest bedroom and bath. We normally keep the door to that stairwell closed, but it had been left open.

Grabbing a broom, my husband looked at me before heading up. Straight-faced, he said, “I’m going in.” Unfortunately, the furry “figment of my imagination” was not upstairs either, so we reluctantly called off the search, convincing ourselves he had somehow found the same way back out that had allowed him to get in. To be on the safe side, Joe promised to set two squirrel traps that night.

“If he’s still in here somewhere, one of these will get him. He’s bound to be hungry.”

Sunday was (almost) peaceful and serene. Both traps were empty. The day was completely devoid of flying squirrels and overturned lamps. Late that afternoon, however, I heard a tiny scratching in the woodstove insert in our family room fireplace. I did not scream, but I did file a report.

Joe said “It’s probably a bird, honey. You and I both know that birds can get trapped in there sometimes if they get past the damper.”

I can now report with authority that rogue squirrels also manage to get themselves ensconced in the void between the fireplace wall and the the insert, waiting until I am home alone on a Monday afternoon to let me know that. A split second after I walked in the room to find him hanging out on my mantel, he squirmed his way back down into the fireplace cavity and proceeded to scream at me.

“Open the family room door and leave it open until I get home”, said the man who thought it was a bird. “He’ll find his way out.”

And of course he did not find his way out. The next two hours at our house would have made Clark W. Griswold bow down in admiration. Knowing that we had him cornered in the fireplace, Joe posted me at the opposite end of the room so that I could report troop movements if the thing managed to escape. All the while, he proceeded to tear up large cardboard boxes, slide them into the thin cavity between the woodstove and the chimney, and set them on fire.

“I’m smoking the little b#%#ard out of there. Don’t take your eyes off that opening and let me know when he comes out.” The wild look in Joe’s eyes was not a comfort. And flames began licking up the bricks toward my mantel.

But the trick worked - until it didn’t. He came out, alright, and immediately went airborne, sailing straight toward me and landing at my feet, after which he burrowed behind Joe’s desk and credenza. We flushed him out with the broom, which sent him straight back into the fireplace cavity - smoke and all. This went on for more than an hour, back and forth between fireplace, sectional sofa, desk and credenza, even though the family room door stood wide open to the outside, even though we eventually closed up all of his options to get back in the fireplace, even though we prayed out loud.

It also bears mentioning that during the skirmish we invited our outdoor cat inside for a visit. He’s an ornery tomcat who prides himself on keeping the back yard under control. Apparently, though, his expertise does not extend to panicky squirrels, because the two of them came face to face at one point and the cat turned and ran out the door.

Finally, with my beautiful sectional up-ended, my ficus tree toppled, my fireplace covered in a tarp and old pillows and duct tape, and with the rest of the room looking about like the Griswold’s living room on Christmas Eve, I was asked to go post myself by the open door, smack the varmint outside with a broom (if he came anywhere within a broom’s reach), and slam the door behind him. This was asking a lot, because by now I was becoming convinced that I had somehow offended this creature while working in my garden and that this was personal. He was hell-bent on making me pay, and after three days of showing up at unexpected junctures and making flying leaps, he was well on the way. I was hardly in any kind of shape to stand guard and wield a broom.

Still, with no other choice, I took up my post. We had him cornered (yet again) behind Joe’s desk, and with one last try from Joe, here came the squirrel, flying through the air. I have no recollection, but Joe says I managed to connect the sweet spot of the broom with his furry little ass, and out the door he went, over the fence, out of the park, home run.

As I said at the top of this post - I can laugh now. But I will leave you with this. If you ever get a squirrel in your house, don’t come to us for advice. We pretty much suck at this. And so does our cat.

Photo at top by Beth Yarbrough. Photo of Chevy Chase as Clark Griswold via Warner Brothers.