The Republic of Squirrels

Squirrels at a bird feeder are like Republicans with a tax code: They will find a way into the corn. They make bird feeders with baffles, bird feeders protected by wire cages, electrified bird feeders, bird feeders with weight activated motors which spin rapidly when squirrels mount them. It does not matter. If you put out a bird feeder, the squirrels will get most of your seed.

In my yard, we've learned to live with that. The king of our birdfeeder is a smart, bad-tempered grey squirrel we call Nixon. Nixon squats lumpishly in the middle of the pie tin full of seeds, stuffing his jowls and growling at the birds. Gus, our (strictly indoor) cat, spends a great deal of time watching Nixon from the other side of the patio door, evidentially under the illusion that the carpet is savannah grass through which he can stalk. He goes flat. His eyes glow and his rump twitches. Nixon is unfazed. Nixon knows he's untouchable.

Today I'm on the phone to Mom when the cat charges right into plate glass with a great smacking clang. The cat stumbles back, shakes the sound out of his ears, and looks at me with undisguised venom. "Oh," I say, "Nixon's back."

Of course an explanation ensues, and some mother-daughter squirrel stories. Mom's concerned about two of hers, a big fellow who's been dragging off whole ears of corn, pulling them right off the spike that's supposed to hold them in place. Soon, she says, he'll be too fat to put his feet on the ground. Enron, we decide.

And then there's the scrawny one with a knack for climbing. He has designs on the second-storey balcony outside her bedroom. She says she can see him way out
on the skinniest branch, planning and scheming. She thinks it's only a matter of time till he leaps in. She worries. Once onto the bare, hot patch, there's no exit, no exit strategy. Unless he can sneak through the bedroom. We name him George.

Outside Nixon slinks off, his cheeks full, casting a resentful look at the seed he had to leave behind. A slate junco sweeps in with his whirl of white under the wings. The cat perks up. Then there's a great flutter and the cat bats the glass to see if it's still solid. It is. He looks at me with infinite resentment. The flutter turns out to be a pair of sparrows behaving shamelessly, in a way that leads to little sparrows. I tell Mom: "They must be Democrats."