Reflections - The Nature of Things

Rills and the Gray Squirrel

Spence is for the birds. I’m against the bears. This sparked lively debates when winter rained into spring.

Visions of bears swirling through my head made my voice quaver. “It’s time to take the bird feeder down.” 

He watched a tufted titmice swoop in for a sunflower seeds and soar off. “The birds enjoy the seeds.”

“Hungry bears will roam soon. They’ll smell the seeds and traipse up the ramp.”

“Not yet. Don’t worry.”

This annual debate happens because we live in bear country. Hungry bears wake from hibernation and search for food—bird feeders are handy reservoirs. Neighbors on either side of us had spied bears drinking sugar water from their hummingbird feeders. A neighbor further down the road saw a bear rip off the top of a plastic garbage can and paw out her entire year’s supply of birdseed. I didn’t want bears smelling the sunflower seeds and making Wells Wood a stop on their circuit.

Our debate didn’t occur this year.

Winter dumped snow but warmer than normal temperatures melted it within a day if not hours. A bear could have left its den multiple times. When we went for our daily health walks, I only strapped on boot cleats once to totter over an ice-covered road. A month before calendar spring, Spence brought the bird feeder in at dinnertime.

The four times we had bear visits, black bears came at night. One came so quietly we wouldn’t have known if it hadn’t left poop in the pansy planter. The second bumped around, left a swatch of hair, and broke the gate which Spence had built to keep our old cats George and Emma in. Another bear, Spence observed lumber across the deck on all fours, round the corner to the porch, and search through buckets—for seed presumably.

The fourth, a huge black bear, scared me. He strolled up the ramp while Spence and I were sitting in the great room. Paralyzed in my chair, I hissed, “Turn off the lights.”

Much slower than I wanted, Spence walked to the switch by the front door, turned off the inside lights, and turned on the porch lights.

The bear didn’t amble to the porch. He stood on his hind legs, put a paw on either side of the empty bird feeder, and licked the perches with his long pink tongue.

Because Spence brought the feeder in at dinnertime and took it out at breakfast, I didn’t worry about sniffing bears.

I hadn’t counted on a different intruder.

The first week of March, our three tabby cats raced to the sliding glass door. Rather than stare at the chickadees swooping in, they glared at the deck floor.

An eastern gray squirrel scooped dropped sunflower seeds off the deck with its paws.

Thud-thud. The cats slammed their bodies against the glass.

The squirrel slammed back.

Having tested the solidness of the glass door, the squirrel continued its dining.

Gilbert and Ande wandered off. They would check on the squirrel from time to time, but it wasn’t their priority.

Rills, however, sat his ground. Ears alert and tail tucked, his eyes never left the seed-scarfing intruder. Days passed and Rills watched the squirrel by the door even when Spence cut chicken in the kitchen. Usually, Rills jumps on the counter, pokes his head around Spence’s hand, and snatches a chunk. With the squirrel on the deck, the smell of chicken in the kitchen didn’t cause the cat to budge.

Carrying two handfuls of cut chicken pieces, Spence crossed to the tile by the sliding glass door and yelled, “Rillzie, Gilbert, Ande! Chicken.” He set the piles of chicken on the tile near Rills.

Ande and Gilbert scampered up, hunkered down, and gobbled.

Rills, small but feisty, would normally pounce on his brothers and hog the treat for himself. He didn’t. Instead, he kept his eyes on the squirrel. Rills didn’t trust that intruder.

His instincts were right.

While I was washing breakfast dishes one morning, I heard, scratch, scratch. BANG! I dropped the saucepan, wiped my hands, and hustled to the sliding glass door.

Curled over its back, the gray squirrel’s tail pointed toward the house. Scratch, scratch.

Rills threw himself against the glass door. BANG!

The squirrel scampered across the deck and hid behind an empty flower pot.

“Good boy, Rills.” I petted the house protector.

Rills crouched. He didn't relax.

 

Rills Observing Squirrel on Side of Door

The squirrel, unsatisfied with the seed droppings, climbed the log wall beside the sliding glass door. Rills leapt and slammed the glass beside the pointy head peeking out parallel to the feeder.

The squirrel scrambled down. It eyed the cat, eyed the feeder, and climbed again. Using the door handle as a perch, the squirrel stretched toward the sunflower seeds exposing part of its belly.

Bam. Rills smacked the glass, sending the rodent scrambling for cover once again.

Whenever the squirrel climbed and reached, Rills countered with a leap-bam-smack.

Despite bears in the neighborhood and this year’s early spring, I’m arguing with myself that I don’t need to fret about leaving the bird feeder out. Rills is keeping the log house and the feeder seeds safe from the eastern gray squirrel. The squirrel is removing extra sunflower seeds from the deck floor. Spence is bringing the feeder in every evening. I can probably trust Spence’s judgment.

Or not.

Spence, after all, delights when I get out of bed in the morning. “I love your hair!” I have to believe him. His eyes sparkle, his cheeks glow under his beard, and he gives me a hug.

My hair must be a mess. “I worked on it all night for you.”

“You look so cute.” He steps back. “A bird could nest in that hair.”

 

Janet's Morning Hair