84Posted: March 26, 2016
I hate the squirrels. I think there are two of them. There could be more, but the behavior is particular and consistent enough to indicate the fragile, neurotic mind of an individual. Maybe that individual has a friend, but let’s be honest, it doesn’t matter if there are two or twenty-seven–I need them to die.
They dig holes in all my containers in the garden. They tear through root systems and eat bulbs lying dormant since November. They destroy young seedlings. They steal the plums. They toss pounds of potting soil onto the concrete. They decapitate flowers. They steal the buds before they have even warmed from the spring sun. They wreak havoc in my blissful, 20×20 patch of curated paradise.
Also, someone is giving them peanuts. They probably think it’s adorable, hey little critter, come on, get a peanut, here you go, and then ten minutes later, here he is again, isn’t it cute, one after another, hundreds of peanuts, shells cracked and left here and there all over our mulch as if there’d been a Yankees game.
I have tried many, many different ways of thwarting their stupid, asshole rituals. The digging, the burying, their psychological inanity. Nothing works. It’s apparently impossible to have a container garden and also have squirrels. Oh sure, they don’t eat the rosemary, or the mint, or the lovage–but they’ll tear through the dirt until the roots are exposed, then they’ll dig under the plant until it’s uprooted completely.
Here’s what I want to do: Bury circles of concertina wire. Maybe two inches under the soil line. They’d come along, fucking peanut in mouth, and paw here and there, oh here’s where I’d love to bury this fucking peanut, right next to the other six that I buried here this morning, and the metal would rip through them, one tiny desperate hand at a time. Hell, maybe they’d lose one arm completely, and maybe that would teach them to leave my plants the fuck alone. Do they have fingers? I hope they lose four out of six. Now how does a little piece of shit like you fare trying to climb back up the telephone pole–oh, how rich is that, right, there’s a telephone pole for a neighborhood where no one has a telephone–and squeeze your bloody, sad, nearly-fainting body into your nest where you’ll hemorrhage from the wrists until you pass out.
How strange, that person might think–my little friend hasn’t been here in three days to pick up his breakfast. Maybe I’ll put a few more nuts out, maybe he’s just forgotten or something. So strange.
Then will my garden will be lush, and glorious, with perfectly smooth soil, and tulips that explode and last for days and days and days.