Squirrelly

Call and Answer

At the next meeting of the Neighborhood Association, Ursula arrived with her arm in a sling and war on her mind.  Her suspicions of the squirrel had finally been proven beyond any doubt.  They were out for blood, and from that point going forward, so were we.

The neighborhood association sprang into reprisals.  Workmen moved into Eddy's Hollow and started to clear the underbrush and trim back the ancient canopy.  They labored for days and the sad drone of the wood chipper fell over the garage sales and weeknight barbeques.   There were some, with houses close to Eddy's Hollow that said they thought they smelled pesticides sometimes in the early morning, but Ursula flatly denied that any credibility could be attached to these reports.  

But, rather than curb the presence of the squirrels, their anger over the destruction of their neighborhood habitat or the destruction thereof itself, drove the squirrels en masse into the neighborhood.  

Bird feeders destroyed.  Cats terrorized.  Dogs sitting stupidly under the wrong tree for hours.  Gardens invaded and fruit and nut trees filled with vile chattering refugees, intent on nothing but destruction.  Nothing was safe.  The squirrels had long ago learned to avoid the live-traps, no matter how tempting the bait offered, and now moved where they wanted, when they wanted.

Ursula held emergency meetings with the neighborhood association.  They enacted temporary bans on all bird feeders.  They required aluminum guards around all the trees within ½ mile of Eddy's Hollow.  Dogs supposedly well bred to hunt squirrels were bought.  Nothing seemed to lessen their continued assault upon the peace we had so recently enjoyed.  

Ursula ran herself ragged. Dark circles fell underneath her piercing stare, her gait became uneven and heavy. She rarely left her yard. She simply walked a lonely patrol around her tulip beds and her tiny patch of tomatoes and lettuce.  Her attention would occasionally snap to the trees and she would listen for something, perhaps something only she could hear.  

The cool of fall clung to the grass that morning when I last saw Ursula.  She was sweeping out her garage and she waved at me when she saw me.  I waved back and was headed back to my front door when I heard Ursula shriek.  

"I got you, you fucker!"  

I turned to see Ursula raise the broom above her head and bring it down again with a mighty grunt.  A squirrel's tiny body squirted blood and bounced off the pavement as Ursula drew back the broom to strike the animal again.  And again.  And again.  

After a small eternity, she looked up from her grisly attack but her eyes were dead, they didn't see me trying to retreat back into the house, wishing I could unsee the last few minutes of violence.  I retreated quickly to my house, shut the door and locked the deadbolt.   

When I gathered my nerve enough to secretly peer out my front windows, I saw an image that will stick with me for the rest of my days.  Ursula stood on the curb in morbid victory, her dress stained with squirrel blood, her hands white-clenching the handle of the broom.  Before her, in the street, sat a bucket in which burned what could only be the body of her fallen adversary. The awful odor of gasoline and squirrel drifted lazily up into the canopy of trees above Ursula's house.  

In the distance, a sharp chirp rang out. Then another. Then more clicking seemed to come from the bushes next to my garage. Then further down the street. Call and answer. Call and answer. 

Ursula, her confidence bewitched, left the burning remains where they sat, and hurried up the driveway and into her house.  

That night, I woke to the sounds of sirens. Bright red lights flashed through my bedroom window. I quickly dressed and stepped outside to see Ursula's house blooming fire from the windows. Firemen carried hoses and axes back and forth across her lawn with serious, hurried expressions. Everyone paused when the lower story glass exploded and part of the roof collapsed, then continued working the fire.  

I made my way over to the fire chief.

"Did the lady that lived there got out in time?"

He shook his head.  "Nothing we could do," he explained, "these old houses burn quick.  All that old wiring.  She a friend of yours?"

"A neighbor."

"Too bad," he said.  I nodded.

"Any idea what caused it?"

"Ah could be anything, short circuit, left a candle going...  We will have to do an investigation.  Pretty sure it started in the attic.  Sometimes a squirrel or something gets trapped in an attic and starts chewing the wiring.  Turns out bad for the squirrel, but much worse for the rest of the house. In cases when people are home, it can be especially tragic.   It's almost as if the squirrels do it on purpose.  So much to nibble on in an attic, yet they choose the electrical cables.  It'll be a damn shame if it turns out to be something like that.  So damn pointless."

I nodded again and then stood in silence, watching the flames consume Ursula's house.