Written By Cathy Drinkwater Better
I should have learned my lesson by now: if the deer and bunnies don’t get my garden, the groundhogs and squirrels will. But at the risk of being called nuts–squirrelly, even–by my husband, I decided to give horticulture another try this year.
At the garden center, I bought enough flowers to fill a public park; I was unloading them in the driveway.
“What are you gonna do with those,” Doug teased, “Cover them with a sneeze-shield and call it a salad bar for deer?”
“No,” I said defensively, “I’m going to plant a garden. There’s got to be a way to keep my blooms from getting pilfered,” I insisted, “And if there is, I’ll find it.”
“Good luck,” said Doug. “I’m going to go spray deer repellent on the leftover azaleas. The deer really seem to like the taste of this stuff,” he mused, studying the ingredient list on the spray bottle. “Maybe I’ll try it on barbecued ribs.”
I loaded my baby flowers into the wheelbarrow, then I grabbed my gardening gloves and a trowel. “Well, here goes,” I thought, without too much conviction. I pushed the wheelbarrow to the flowerbed in the front yard.
Something had gotten there first. There were holes everywhere. Squirrels. It looked like they were digging for the last of the acorns and walnuts they’d buried last year. I refused to be discouraged.
After patting soil around the last flower in the bed, I went to get some plant food. When I returned, half of my flowers had been uprooted. I looked around, but didn’t see the culprit anywhere. I replanted the flowers.
Next, I planted the flowerbed by the front porch, then went inside for a drink of water. When I got back I found hastily dug holes and uprooted plants. But this time the perpetrator wasn’t hiding–he was sitting 15 feet away, bushy tail twitching as he munched a vintage acorn.
“This means war!” I declared, Elmer Fudd style. Doug, who was putting barbed wire around the remnants of our roses, must have heard me, because he turned and waved.
I had an idea: I went inside for a bag of peanuts. When I came back, Mr. Squirrel was calmly picking his itty-bitty teeth with a pine needle. I tossed him some goobers.
Immediately he bounded forward and began shelling peanuts and stuffing his cheeks. I tried holding out one peanut to see what he would do. After a few hesitant steps he snatched that peanut from my fingers and scampered up a tree.
Later, while planting begonias along the front walk, I suddenly had the feeling I was being watched. I turned around to see two squirrels staring at me. I chucked them a handful of peanuts and went back to work.
Last, I aimed to plant impatiens around the patio. As I pushed the wheelbarrow along the stone path, I could swear I heard tiny footsteps. I looked over my shoulder and saw seven squirrels following me, Pied Piper-like. One of them had a shopping bag. This was starting to remind me of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I quickly lobbed them some peanuts and hurried away.
Pushing the wheelbarrow back to the garage, I pondered whether a regular supply of nuts might distract the squirrels from my flowerbeds. The next day I bought a five-pound bag of freshly roasted peanuts. I put some in a bowl for Doug and scattered some on the deck for the squirrels. By that evening, every peanut was gone; including Doug’s.
All that week I fed an assemblage of squirrels that seemed to grow bigger every day. On the eighth morning, Doug was in his home office when he heard a tapping on the window. He turned to see at least 30 squirrels looking in at him. The one front and center, obviously their leader, had rapped on the glass. When he got Doug’s attention, he pointed to his left wrist: “You’re late.”
“Cathy,” Doug called, “Can you come in here?”
“Oops, I forgot to feed them today,” I confessed, when I saw the crowd at the window. “No problem; I’ll do it later.”
“Yes, problem,” said Doug, not taking his eyes off the mass of rodents outside his window. “These guys are three tiny, flaming torches shy of an angry mob,” he said. “I think you’d better do it now.”
I threw out the peanuts in the usual place. Instantly, the squirrels all tried to stampede onto the deck at once.
“Whoa!” I cried. “No pushing! There’s plenty for everybody!” It was obvious that I was going have to manage this before somebody got trampled–like me, for instance.
I convinced Doug to help by pointing out that nary a squirrel had bothered the birdfeeders since I’d started giving them peanuts. The next morning I positioned him by the stairs and he conducted our guests onto the eating platform a few at a time. Soon the whole deck was filled with small groups of squirrels chattering happily and shelling peanuts.
“Should we start taking reservations?” asked Doug. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, so I said, “Let me think aboutÉI really like the casual atmosphere we’ve got now. After all, we don’t want to be a snooty, formal restaurant, where folks don’t feel they can stop in any old time.”
“I don’t want to be any kind of restaurant,” declared Doug before stomping into the house.
A few evenings later the phone rang. When Doug answered it, a tiny voice squeaked, “Do you have valet parking?” That was it. I could tell Doug was no longer on board.
“We don’t have any parking,” he informed the caller. “We’re closed!”
