BATTLE SQUIRRELS
by (Who else?) Loyd Leon
I’ve always prided myself on two things: my Christmas lights and my ability to outsmart the critters on this farm. Well, one of those got tested more than I’d like to admit the year I tangled with the devil’s furballs—squirrels—while trying to spread some holiday cheer.
It started like any other December morning. The frost was thick, the air was sharp enough to cut glass, and Mabel, my dear wife of 47 years, hollered from the porch, “Don’t kill yourself hangin’ those lights, Loyd! We don’t need the neighbors talkin’ about another one of your fiascoes!”
Her faith in me is truly inspiring.
I shuffled to the barn, pulled down the box of lights from the loft, and immediately regretted not storing them properly last year. It was a tangled mess of wires, half-working bulbs, and what looked suspiciously like a bird’s nest. I grumbled a bit, but I wasn’t about to let a little thing like organization stand between me and the best-looking farmhouse in the county. So I grabbed the whole wad and marched back to the house, ladder in tow.
Climbing up to the roof was easy enough, though my knees did a lot more creaking than they used to. I got the first string of lights hooked to the gutter, admiring my handiwork and thinking I was making pretty good time. That’s when I heard it—a chittering sound, faint but menacing. I looked around, saw nothing, and figured it was just the wind or maybe one of the barn cats.
I should’ve known better.
I was halfway through the second string of lights when I felt it—a sudden thump against my back. I nearly jumped out of my overalls, which would’ve been a real problem considering I was perched on the top rung of the ladder. Turning my head, I caught sight of the culprit: a squirrel, staring me down like I’d just insulted his mama.
Now, I’ve dealt with squirrels before. They’ve chewed through my tractor wires, stolen Mabel’s birdseed, and once, one even snuck into the attic and scared her so bad she didn’t come down for two days. But this one had a look in his eye like he meant business. I swatted at him with the nearest thing I had—the string of lights. Instead of scaring him off, the little devil scampered closer, grabbed hold of the lights, and yanked.
Next thing I know, I’m wrestling a squirrel on my roof. I hollered and flailed, trying to keep my balance and my dignity, but neither of those things was cooperating. The squirrel let out a shriek like I’d just threatened his whole family, and before I knew it, there were more of them. They came out of nowhere—three, maybe four more squirrels, all chattering and twitching their tails like some kind of tiny, furry army.
One of them darted across the roof, leapt onto my shoulder, and started nibbling on my hat. Another was tugging at the light string like it had plans to decorate its own tree. Meanwhile, I was spinning and swatting, trying not to step on the gutter or fall off entirely. “Mabel!” I yelled. “Get the shotgun!”
She poked her head out the door and yelled back, “What on earth are you hollerin’ about now, Loyd?”
“SQUIRRELS!” I roared, swiping at one that was making a beeline for my other shoulder.
“Serves you right for not sealing up that feed shed!” she called back, laughing so hard I could hear it clear across the yard. Real helpful, that one.
By this point, the ladder was wobbling like a drunk on ice skates. I made the executive decision to retreat, sliding down faster than I should’ve, and landed in a heap at the bottom. I looked up just in time to see one of the squirrels poke its head over the edge of the roof, chittering like it was laughing at me.
“Alright, you little heathens,” I muttered, dusting myself off. “You wanna play dirty? Two can play at that game.”
I stormed back to the barn and came out armed with the hose. My plan was simple: give those varmints a taste of cold water and watch them scatter. I turned the spigot, hauled the hose up the ladder, and aimed it like a cowboy in a spaghetti western.
What I didn’t account for was the temperature. The water hit the roof, froze instantly, and turned my shingles into a skating rink. The squirrels, apparently unfazed, scampered around like they were auditioning for a Christmas ice show, while I nearly slipped off the ladder trying to keep my footing.
Mabel, by now, had come outside to watch the show. She stood there, arms crossed, with the kind of smirk that made me regret ever saying “I do.” “You done yet, Loyd?” she asked.
“Not by a long shot!” I bellowed, though I was starting to think she might have a point.
In the end, I had to admit defeat. The squirrels held their ground, and I was out of ideas (and dignity). I managed to finish hanging the lights, though they were crooked and missing half their bulbs thanks to the tug-of-war with my furry adversaries. That night, as I sat on the porch nursing a hot cocoa and my bruised ego, Mabel came out to join me.
“Well,” she said, patting my knee, “at least the house looks… unique.”
“Unique,” I muttered. “That’s one way to put it.”
We sat there in silence for a while, watching the lights blink unevenly in the cold night air. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw them—the squirrels, perched on the roof, silhouetted against the moonlight like some kind of victorious army. One of them was even holding a chunk of light string in its mouth, as if to remind me who really ran this farm.
I took a long sip of my cocoa, sighed, and muttered, “Merry Christmas, you little jerks.”
