HUMAN WRECKAGE

The Ugly Face of War

Our gas barbecue is housed in a brick cabinet on the backyard patio. The countertop is tile. Beneath it is a storage area which also allows access to the gas line. Early last spring I took the unit apart to clean and prep it for the upcoming grilling season. I was dismayed to discover a squirrel nest made of grass clippings and whatever other debris the critters could scavenge.

During these past couple of months of summer I noticed I had been refilling the four bird feeders on the property at an unprecedented rate. I realized I was not only feeding my flock but a family of squirrels. Our aged tabbies no longer prowl like they once did and are no threat to the neighbourhood varmints anymore. Last week I watched a squirrel climb up into the angled extension of one of our downspouts, slide through it, pop out into the garden and then scamper up and do it again. And again. When the house is still, Ann and I pause periodically and listen for scrabbling in the attic.

Saturday morning Ann and I took our coffee out on the front porch. The air was heavy and humid. Thunderheads were building to the west. Ann saw a squirrel run up a front wheel of our Honda CRV and disappear. She went and got the keys and then started the engine. The rodent emerged through the front grille, a blur of fur, Chip n’ Dale physics. We opened the hood and discovered a nest of grass clippings perched atop the engine. Worse, the hood liner had been chewed through and its insulation torn out.

Our problems are of course the fault of others. The cats are too old to be of any use. The woodpeckers, blue jays and finches aren’t aggressive enough defending their food sources. The City of Edmonton by encouraging me not to collect my grass clippings for ecological reasons has become a supplier of building materials.

Since my territorial pissings have done nothing to dissuade the local skunk population, I figured whipping it out again was not an option. Ann and I declared war. I chose weapons. The garden hose turned on full and set to JET worked for about a minute. The cheeky, rusty red bastards quickly turned the show of force into a game, nattering for more from high tree branches. The straw broom is ineffective. While my form is good, there’s too much drag, like trying to swat a fly with an open newspaper.

Last night it occurred to me that our solution might be leaning up against a bookshelf in the basement: a Daisy Red Rider BB gun. Ann thinks that my patrolling the property or sitting on the front porch in this day and age with something that resembles an actual rifle might not be my most inspired idea. No good could come of it.

I might wing a neighbour; if it’s that old cow with anger management issues to the right of us, twice. That lady in the blue coat who always deposits her dog’s shit in our back alley bins? I’d ambush her. I’d take potshots at speeders zipping down our street, draw a bead on those vandals on trick bikes who rob parked cars after dark. I’d aim at the windows of that black infill three doors down, the one that resembles a Star Trek Borg cube, bust them all.

Vermin. I will eradicate our squirrel infestation. I will shoot them all. I will decapitate their corpses and impale their cute, big-eyed heads on tomato stakes as a warning to others. I will decorate our driveway with ornamental skulls. I will summon my friends the crows and the magpies to feast upon the fruits of my lusty slaughtering, the Crooked 9 will run with blood. Me is Geoff, meGeoff! I swear by the red god Mars to kill everything in sight.

Hang on. I can hear Ann in another room on the phone with Netflix Derek our psychologist friend. Car keys jingling and jangling. She’s packed a suitcase. It’s sitting by the front door. What’s going on here? Door slam! She’ll be back. I’m pretty sure. It’s not as if I’m unhinged or anything. I mean, c’mon, I’m the most stable guy I know. Really. Oh well, best let it ride. Meanwhile, I must find some ammo for that Red Rider. And where did I stash that black balaclava and the camouflage coverall?