Squirrel!

Dammit!

Squirrel!

Dammit!

That’s been the routine around the house for the past few weeks, ever since I erected what I call my bird-feeding Taj Mahal. It’s just a big wooden structure, with two big treated timbers stuck in the ground ten feet apart, connected at the top by a couple of ten-foot long two-by-fours. It’s a sturdy structure, from which I can hang or attach any number of feeders and bird baths.

For years, I had hung my feeders from a long wire stretched between two trees. But the feeders never hung straight and I couldn’t attach any large feeder to the wire. This past summer I built a really big feeder that holds about 30 pounds of sunflower seeds, so my birds will have plenty to eat even if we’re gone for a week or more. This, of course, only happens once a year, since we’re usually tied down with the newspaper business, but it also means I won’t have to fill the feeders every morning at the crack of dawn when it’s 30 below outside. I realize I don’t really have to fill the feeders every morning, but it’s hard to break out of routines, and this has been a routine of mine since the age of 12. Besides, after 33 years of feeding birds from our ridge overlooking the Lost Lake Swamp, breakfast at the Helmbergers’ is part of the daily routine for an awful lot of birds— and I hate to disappoint them.

But I digress. We were talking about squirrels.

I had originally hung my feeders on wires to keep the red squirrels out, and it’s been a pretty effective strategy over the years. I knew as soon as I stuck wooden posts in the ground, I would have to deal with the red squirrels in some other way. I put up horizontal flashing around the posts using a piece of metal ridgecap left over from a previous roofing project. That kept the squirrels at bay for about an hour. Then, one figured out it could leap from below the flashing at just the right angle to just barely grab ahold of the bottom of one of the feeders. So I attached a piece of vertical flashing underneath the horizontal flashing on the inside of the post, which put an end to that.

The next day, the squirrel was back in the feeder, so I chased him out and kept an eye on him for a while. Eventually, he tipped me off. He was crawling up high on a patch of hazelbrush near the feeder and as it dipped down towards the feeder, he’d make a mad dash to the end and leap.

I got out the clippers and put an end to that. Ha, I thought, a squirrel has to get up pretty early to outsmart me.

The next day… “Your squirrel’s back,” said Jodi, with a slightly smug expression.

“Dammit,” I said.

I chased him out and waited some more. This time, it took longer than usual. A couple days later, I finally caught him. He was using a nearby maple tree which had a long branch that came close enough to my Taj Mahal to let him leap onto one of the posts.

So I got out my saw and showed that squirrel who was really the boss.

The next day, “Squirrel’s back,” said Jodi.

“Oh for god’s sake,” I said.

This time it took nearly a week. I started to suspect the squirrel was wising up. If I chased him out of the feeder, he stayed away for hours at a time. But, finally, he tipped his hand. I had attached a clamp-on bird bath to the structure down by the ground, which seemed too far for a squirrel to jump. But this guy had figured out that if he used his front paws on the front of the clamping mechanism and his back feet against the post, he could boost his jumping ability considerably. He’d assume the position, and just launch himself missile-like through the air, reaching one of the feeders. I was so impressed at his athletic prowess I let him eat for a while. I realized I was in the presence of one exceptional red squirrel.

A half hour later I went out and moved the bird bath. This will be the end of it, I told myself.

You already know what happened next. “Squirrel’s back,” said Jodi the next morning.

“How is he doing this?!” I complained in exasperation.

Ten days later, that’s a question that remains unanswered. That squirrel now seems to have developed a sixth sense. He only gets into the feeder once a day when he knows I’m not watching. I chase him out, hoping that he’ll eventually tip his hand. But so far, nada.

I know there’s a final solution to this problem, but I gave up shooting red squirrels years ago. They can be as fun to watch as the birds and they’re only coming around because I’m putting out food. It’s not their fault for wanting a piece of the action. Besides, this one has now become part of my morning routine.

“Squirrel!”

“Dammit!”