Squirrels are adorable terrorists. They’re small, agile, cute, destructive, and recently, they attempted to take me out.
Muerte. Dead. Doomed. Ixnayed. Rubbed out. Removed with extreme prejudice.
Call it what you will, this was a clear attempt on my life.
Some background: Our home is more than a century old. The backyard is filled with treasures, from modern toys, vintage toys, china, bottles, inkwells, and other various items accumulated over time.
Until now, they’ve been relatively tame, and only unearthed by our dogs. Or me. Or moles. You get the picture.
It all changed when I heard a thunk as I was near the Super Tree House Compound I built for our son. A squirrel- it could be no other beast– dropped something from the top of our maple tree.
It was no accident. For your consideration, I offer the following evidence:
That. . . is an antler knife with a screwdriver, or what I like to call, “Evidence of a crime.”
I’m holding the knife until the end of my natural existence, in the event that the squirrels decide to take another crack at me. You must understand, I have a history with squirrels. Our relationship began quite well– we had tame squirrels that ate out of our hands. They would sit on my shoulder, and let me pet their little ears. All was well until the Pumpkin Incident of 2003.
I had a sixty pound pumpkin of such glorious orange that it was sure to be a showstopper for Halloween. When I woke up one morning before carving, I saw something odd. The back end of a squirrel protruded from the interior of my once heroic pumpkin, now a partial husk having been disemboweled by a family of squirrels.
Actually, they’re a crime family. Let’s call it like it is.
I *may* have yelled at the offending beastie, and we all know how the Squirrel Network never forgets– and never forgives.
I urge you to look up. They’re watching you, and they’re armed.