The future is fantastic. More than anything it's because currently in the future, squirrels do not exist. Besides the band The Cranberries, I am not sure there is anything I dislike more than these rabid, poor-mannered monsters. They don't do anything productive. They don't pollinate anything. They don't really provide sustenance. They do however, provide rednecks with a target to practice and dogs something to chase.
In a past life, I lived in Winston-Salem, North Cakalaka. Yeah, I know. The Bible Belt. It's great if you're into cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Winnie, "The city that makes Durham look nice" that's the city motto. Winnie who...Winston-Salem is without a doubt The North American Squirrel Capital™. Never have I seen so many of these bushy-tailed rodents running rampant with total disregard for civilized behavior.
I lived below ground in a old Victorian house in the historic West End. Not that this should mean anything to anyone, but it was funny the way they marketed the neighborhood. Winnie who, I had a giant oak tree in my yard and a dozen other smaller trees—mostly elms and a couple hickories. And where there are trees in Winnie, there is a family of squirrels ready to infest anything they can. Such as...my apartment.
The first time one of these cheek stuffers entered my domain, my mother was enjoying some Pinot Noir and I was taking the garbage out. I didn't want to interrupt my parent's witty banter, so I left the door open. The cheek stuffer jumped in front of my door and looked at me. I didn't move. When I made a move to the door, he cruised into my apartment. Over the counter - into the bedroom - into my shower - knocking over my 1972 reissued Gibson SG Standard and into my pantry in search of the apples imported from Wisconsin. After chasing him around, much to the hilarity of my makers, I shooed him out of the house like one of those old ladies who shoos things.
The second and third times I encountered the cheek stuffers, it wasn't as humorous (if you're me). My dramatic landlord who happened to occupy the rest of the house thought it'd be great to catch the squirrels, who now lived in the walls, with live traps—as to not hurt the little cuties. I didn't agree, but I didn't want to smell squirrel carcass or even worse, have to dispose of squirrel carcass. I put two huge metal boxes in my apartment that contained peanut butter and some nuts. Then I traveled to New York City for a week and came back to a house that looked like it was occupied by the Manson Family. Everything knocked over. Blood, feces, urine, fruit pieces,etc. And in the translucent,suspended ceiling panel was the shadow of a squirrel basking the florescent lighting, glaring at me with his beady squirrel eyes. I'll never forget the moment of pure rage when I noticed him.
Oh and there were two squirrels in the trap. Hungry and seizing with diseases, they were barking at me. The cleaning lady came over and the squirrel man released them into a field by Wake Forest and my landlord got me a nice bottle of wine.
In the final encounter, these little bastards chewed up my desk and shit on my bed. Luckily my dramatic squirrel loving landlord was chilling with his boyfriend when a squirrel interrupted their soap opera and he screamed his best Janet Leigh scream. The carpenter patched a hole. I bought some poison. I heard some more Janet-esque screams from upstairs, and I think I even hit a squirrel with a stone when I saw it casing out my front door.
Three cheers for the future.
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