#2: The Heinous Fuckery of the Squirrel

I laugh bitterly now when I think back to that sweet, innocent time when I thought of squirrels as cute and adorable. Having grown up in Arizona, my exposure to squirrels was limited for most of my life, occurring only in zoos, on out of state camping trips, or when discussing the nature of a mysterious stuffed animal named Blackie who most of my siblings coveted and who was old and battered enough to defy classification ("A bear?" "No." "A cat?" "No." "An ocelot?" "Maybe."). Squirrel was a possibility, if one accepted that his tail had been chopped off by some vicious future serial killer, and he was dyed completely black by the Exxon Valdez oil spill before coming to live out his twilight years with us.

I know now of course that there is no way that Blackie could be a squirrel since it is inconceivable that I could love so deeply a creature in any way related to those monsters.

You remember how eagerly I looked forward to spring and the promise of warmth and the joys of killing some plants of my very own in the guise of growing my own fruits and vegetables, don't you? And that plan came to some fruition, as my porch soon sported two thriving tomato plants and some hanging flower baskets. All very pretty. My landlord even commented on how well my tomatoes were doing in comparison to his own, while looking at me a little suspiciously, waiting for a confession that would never come of my success ("Yes, well, ground-up baby makes the best fertilizer, I always say . . .").

I have a personal policy regarding not giving any gardening advice, since I have had all too much of it foisted on me unasked. Plus, I was a little afraid that he would laugh if I told him what I secretly suspect is the source of my large plants and their dozens of tomatoes: chatting with my plants every morning while I water them. Very simple, just a few compliments on their appearance, a promise of more water tomorrow, and a cordial wish to have a pleasant day before I go back inside. Good manners hurt no one, I always say.

All was going disgustingly well until those fucking squirrels made an appearance. One tomato on one of the plants had advanced much further in maturation than any of the other tomatoes. It was quite large for a tomato grown out of a pot, at least a pound, I'd estimate, and just starting to turn red.

And then one morning it was a bleeding, dismembered corpse hanging from its stem, victim to hungry teeth.

I considered my options over the next couple days: chili pepper, netting, cages, etc. but everything seemed open to failure. I wanted to win and win decisively. In the meantime, a few more tomatoes, less luscious but no less loved by me, were victim to the mongrels, and I knew I had to take action or be soon left with nothing.

And so I moved the tomatoes indoors completely. I put them in the sunny, sunny room I had painted yellow, up on tables so that they could take full advantage of the windows. I unfortunately broke a branch on one on my way in, and the tomatoes it bore soon shriveled, but the rest survived. I've been watching my plants closely, and over the last week that have not merely survived, but have actually done well. I think I'll have some to pick soon.

I related all this to my landlord this morning in the basement as I was putting laundry in the wash and he was putting the hose away ( . . . the garden hose, you perverts. You know, not everything I say is meant to be taken as an innuendo.). I asked him how his tomatoes were fairing, one floor up from mine, now that the squirrels couldn't gorge on the second floor. As he was answering me, fuck if I squirrel didn't come sauntering up to the basement door, clearly listening to our conversation! I won't claim that he had a tomato in his hands at that moment (though that would have been perfect, wouldn't it?), but he certainly appeared well-fed.

My eyes narrowed. "Well, speak of the devil," I sneared.

The Best Landlord in the World turned around, and without a moment's hesitation, hurled a broom twenty feet out the basement door with all the accuracy of an Olympic javelin thrower aiming for something somewhat to the left of the squirrel.

Our spy scurried off, back to report to his troops on what steps to take for the next offensive while the Best Landlord in the World and I discussed BB guns.