The Squirrels are Winning

I am at war with the wildlife.

Not majestic wildlife, either. Not bears or wolves. Not even raccoons.

No. I am losing a war to squirrels.

For a few weeks now, three squirrels have been living above our attic bedroom ceiling, where they spend every night reenacting Riverdance while moving furniture. I don’t know what house squirrels normally sound like, but these squirrels sound like they are operating a midsize all-night bowling alley.

Around 3 a.m., they begin: THUMP. SCRITCH. SKITTERSKITTERSKITTER.

I had hoped they were just passing through, but no. They moved in. They moved in, and invited their friends, and are hosting late night block parties. They are well on their way to establishing a municipality above my head.

Naturally, we named them. There’s Mortimer, slow and confident. He has a presence. Other squirrels around town know him by name. If you told me that he pays taxes, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Then Bertha, who I suspect is the true brains of the operation. She’s a little more furtive, but there’s definitely something behind those eyes. She makes the plans that the men carry out.

Finally, we have Chuck Deez Nuts (because maturity is important to us as homeowners). Chuck is the resident asshole. A total frat boy. Did you know that squirrels scream? Chuck screams a lot.

Photo by National Wildlife Photo Contest entrant Christine Haines. I picture this squirrel saying “Here’s Johnny!”

Eventually, sleep deprivation drove us to call a wildlife expert. Our hero arrived carrying humane catch-and-release traps baited with some kind of nut butter. Within 24 hours, Mortimer was trapped humanely. We relocated him to a wildlife area 15 miles away.

Things got just a little quieter, but the loudest parts of the squirrel throuple still remained. The war was far from over.

But to our delight, Chuck Deez Nuts soon followed, into Trap No. 2. We cheered as we transported him, chittering and cursing, to his edge of the far-away wildlife area. With such innocent hope we drove home, believing that with the gentlemen squirrels gone, surely Bertha would follow and our restful nights would return.

But we celebrated too early. Bertha remains.

And Bertha has changed. At first there were occasional footsteps - little scampering sounds and polite squirrel noises. But now? Now she travels with the fury of a woman whose polycule has been dismantled. I lie awake in bed listening to her thunder overhead while my exhausted brain creates increasingly unreasonable theories. What if she’s building structures? Can she see us through the recessed lighting? What if she’s learning our routines? What if she has sent directions to Mortimer and Chuck and they are hitchhiking their way back to our house right now for Squirrel 2: the Vengeance.*

Our days have become centered around the most bizarre conversations. Things like “I think Bertha is moving insulation again,” or “she sounds bigger tonight,” or “if she has babies, I’m legally transferring ownership of this house to her.”

The worst part is that I’ve started rooting for her a little. Not enough to let her stay. Let’s not get carried away. I would still like to sleep before autumn. But you have to admire her moxie. Even with Mortimer and Chuck gone, she’s still at it. THUMP. SCRATCH. PARKOUR. Girl power, or some such.

Bertha refuses defeat, and until we can come to a peaceable and silent cease fire, the war continues. Sleep remains elusive.

I will report back from the front lines once victory has been achieved.

***

*Please appreciate these alternate names for my made-up squirrel movie sequel:

• Squirrel 2: The Squeakquel

• Squirrel 2: The Fast and the Furriest

• Squirrel 2: Fury Roadkill