Squirrelly

Tulips and Destruction

Our neighborhood once prided itself on being a quiet, safe place. Nestled some distance from the city, lazy streets snaking up Bernard Hill offered views to some of the nicer homes of the lower valley and gave the whole subdivision a wooded, reclusive feel. The huge trees lining the streets afforded us summer shade and sleepy quiet underneath their silver leaves. This was a place that people wanted to move. Why wouldn't they? We had Eddy’s Hollow, a natural woodland preserved by the city fathers when they planned this subdivision. We had a tiny post office and several markets down on Harrison Street. The city council even gave us our own library and grade school. Our neighborhood enjoyed a good reputation in the city, and it just seemed to be getting better every day.

Things could have been perfect, if not for the squirrels.  

I never paid much attention to the squirrels before Ursula Feldgud moved into the house across the street. Sure, I noticed the little fellows. I enjoy working in my yard and occasionally I would spot them as they scampered across the front yard, or hear then chattering to each other from high in the tree tops. The squirrels simply seemed to blend into the long, tree-lined avenues and cool shadows of the neighborhood, I just never gave them much thought.   

Some of the neighbors didn’t like them. They bought birdfeeders designed to keep the little rascals out, and sprinkled cayenne pepper in their flower beds. Some of the crazier ones even put up aluminum guards around the bases of their fruit trees in the autumn in an attempt to keep the squirrels at bay. I remember thinking it a little foolish to try and stop the squirrels. Most of the neighborhood paid them very little attention and fed them indiscriminately along with the birds.

One person's anti-squirrel efforts would mean little to the tiny beasts. So, really, why bother...

My laissez faire squirrel-attitude came to an end the morning Ursula Feldgud appeared for the first time across the street. One Saturday morning, a moving van appeared in front of the colonial style across the street. I stood in mu front yard, watering the rose bushes that ran along the driveway, and watched her circling the van and issuing orders to the movers, who took her directions mutely and obediently.  

Ursula supervised the men for a few moments before her attention fell on me. Her smile grew larger as she came across the street to shake my hand.  She was a bit older, but still attractive with dark hair and fiercely blue eyes that seemed to bore into my brain as we made our introductions and exchanged some small talk.  

We talked for a moment about my rose bushes and the conversation turned to gardening, which it seemed was a shared passion between us. She told me again how beautiful my roses were and then looked me over in a strange way, as if she were sizing up my character or trustworthiness, or something. Then, apparently satisfied, she leaned in and asked a question in a conspiratorial tone. 

“So, what kind of rodent… activity do we have around the neighborhood?”

The question took me back a bit.  I was under the impression that she was going to proposition me, or ask me where she could buy pot, or something like that.  “Rodents?  You mean, like…”

She stepped a bit closer.  She smelled flowery with a hint of, what was it?  Spearmint.  Her eyes were big when she looked up into mine.  “Rodents.”  She said slowly, “you know, gophers, rats, mice-”  Her eyes involuntarily moved away from me, scanned my yard, and narrowed. “Squirrels.”  

I shook my head.  “Not really.  I found a few dead mice in my basement when I moved in.  And I see a squirrel every once and again. Sometimes they will get into someone’s birdfeeder or garden, but you don’t hear about that too much.  Down the street, a couple weeks ago, there were some raccoons stealing dog food, but-”

“Raccoons are not rodents.”  She said dismissively,  “Closer to bears, actually.”  She took a couple of steps back and surveyed the yard again, this time with a heavier scrutiny.  She moved to my tulip beds and looked down sadly at the flowers.  The heat of early summer was sapping the blooms of their previous brilliance.  She shook her head.  

“This is what happens,” she said. Her shoulders drooped and she knelt to look more closely at the flowers.  She would occasionally lift her head and look around, then back down to the soil.  

“What are you looking at?”  I asked, somewhat uncomfortable.   

“Look at this.”  She pointed at the soil.  I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.  Ursula snorted a bit at my ignorance, and pointed. “Squirrel tracks. All over here. Destroying your tulips.”  

“What? I mean, really?” I looked closer. Maybe there were little scratch marks in the dirt.  

“Bastards.” Ursula spat, stood up and looked at me squarely. “You don’t have to take that, you know.”

I knelt down next to my dying tulips, the deep purple and red petals falling in sad wreaths around their stems... I looked at the scratch marks and back up at Ursula. She shook her head sadly, half in allegiance with my plight and half in embarrassment over my helplessness in the face of these rodents, then, without a word, she walked back across the street.