Squirrels are pesky. They eat Grandma’s bird seed and they bite off Grandpa’s tulips. But that’s not the worst of it. You see, I was in the garden when it all started. From out of its hiding place, a demon squirrel darted out and ran up my leg, likely mistaking me for a horse chestnut tree (I was standing near one) and into my shorts.
Luckily I was wearing my favourite shorts, the ones with fifty pockets. And luckily I wasn’t wearing a belt even though I should have - my shorts were too big (the store didn’t have my size and I really wanted a pair of shorts with fifty pockets). And luckily too, I was carrying pliers and screwdrivers and nails and string and a weed digger in my pockets, leaving forty or so pockets available just in case. I’m pretty sure there was also an apple tucked away, meant for a snack… which I’d been unable to find last fall – I had 50 pockets after all. No worries though, I was smart enough to know, after five months, that it was no longer edible.
Here’s the point – my shorts were droopy, being so big and so heavy. In other words, there was lots of room for the squirrel to run up one leg, into my shorts, cross over and run out of my shorts, down my other leg, which is exactly what he did. I think he wanted out of there, lickety-split, upon realizing my legs weren’t tree trunks. (My legs have no bark for one thing.)
Of course, this episode gave me nightmares. And so I wanted revenge. I did yell but the squirrel had hearing problems. I threw stones and that sort of worked. He’d run off. BUT he always came back. Bringing a smirk with him. So here’s what I did. I left a note for the fox who’d also been visiting our yard. (The fox didn’t run up my shorts, there being not quite enough room). His name was Fred.
‘Dear Fred,” I wrote, ‘please get rid of the squirrel who ran up my shorts and who smirks at me. He’s really mean. Hope you’re having a good day. Your friend, Grandpa. P.S. The squirrel in question is the one who doesn’t trim his nails.’
Next morning, Fred, being a good fox, showed up and chased that smirking squirrel round and round my round flower bed. Next, they leaped up onto the fence and down again, before heading to the front yard. There, Fred followed the squirrel up the drain pipe onto the roof.
I ran into the house to tell your Grandma.
“Can’t you see I’m having a shower?” she said, before I could finish my story.
“But Fred the Fox is trying to catch the nasty squirrel with the smirky smile, the one who ran up my shorts. As you know, I am now burdened by nightmares and I am obsessed with clipping my nails.”
“Get over it.”
“It’s a good thing my shorts were droopy,” I said.
“You need new shorts,” Grandma said. “Shorts that have a normal number of pockets and that don’t smell like fermented apples.”
“We can discuss that later. Meanwhile, didn’t you hear me? The squirrel and the fox are on the roof,” I said, which is when I heard noises coming from the fireplace.
I ran out of the bathroom.
“Close the door,” Grandma later insisted she said.
I went to the fireplace. It was very noisy up the chimney. I heard Fred the Fox say, “If Santa Claus can do this…” which was when the squirrel burst out of the fireplace. Luckily I was wearing long pants. Fred the Fox was a split second behind the squirrel.
Thinking fast, I opened all the doors and windows in the house. The plan was to trick the squirrel and the fox into leaving by the most convenient exit. Unfortunately, the bathroom door was inadvertently left open. Fortunately, squirrels and foxes don’t normally take showers because they weren’t raised properly. So, the squirrel and Fred ran back out of the bathroom almost right away. Grandma’s scream may have been a factor.
I screamed too. Not that I was scared – I just felt like screaming.
As it turned out, wild animals don’t like human screaming. So the squirrel and Fred the Fox eventually found the front door. They headed down the street, looking over their shoulders, wide eyed, side by side now, as if they were running from the same thing… as if I was the crazy person and not the lady in the shower.
An hour later I decided to stop screaming.
Luckily there’s a happy ending - the smirking squirrel never came back. Though I do wonder if maybe he did return and I didn’t notice because he just stopped smirking. You see, unless they’re smirking, you can’t tell one squirrel from another.
I suppose I should mention that Grandma threw my shorts with fifty pockets in the garbage. As a result of Grandma’s unilateral decision, I no longer feel safe going near the horse chestnut tree. Because my remaining shorts are not squirrel resistant – they fit properly and they have hardly any pockets.
The end.
This was a true story. Well, mostly true. For example, there was a fox in our yard. And for sure, squirrels do not use nail clippers. Love Grandpa.
