My mom is ordering contract killing. who knew sweet mom, with innocent and youthful looks had such a ruthless streak inside her tiny body. of course the other half of this new bonnie and clyde tag team, my father, is a willing accomplice. (his pay is pie's or cookies)
I have a term I use, “run squirrelito, run” that came from a time in spain when my friend laughed at the term “squirrel” and said, “no mark they are squirrelito’s!” I have no idea if this is true, but the term has stuck.
There are times when my father turns into the elmer fudd character from the looney tunes cartoons. It is when the squirrels come down off the hill and eat at or on top of he birdfeeders. he will spend hours watching them, scouting their movement and behavior, sending reconnaissance to mom about the personality of each one and who was the bad or naughty ones.
The rule is that the squirrelito’s can come up to the bird feeders and enjoy whatever was knocked out by the various birds, but if they go up the feeder pole, it is akin to a death sentence. At that moment a line in the sand is crossed and each squirrelito is fair game.
I do try to give them a warning, “run squirrlito run!” or I will take and fiddle with the sights on dads pellet rifle that he probably spent a few hours “sighting in” for accuracy. If you add in that dad will get a smidgen hyper holding the pellet gun, It makes the odds fairer, and much more interesting to watch. I swear when my dad passes on, there is going to be a few hundred pissed off squirrels up in heaven arguing the case for why dad wasn’t a saint in his life.
When people ask me why I left the northeast, I just point to the weather map. My god, it is almost April and it is 8 degrees at night. I guess 97 percent of the great lakes froze over, and there is piles of snow and ice sheets around. A veritable vacation hotbed for humanity to choose to not just visit a few weeks a year, but rather reside. I think spring will come on june 15 this year, a week later, summer!
we were having coffee and the cold squirritos were doing what animals do. “we are hungry, there is food!” mom caught one on top of the bird feeder hording the seed meant for the little birds she likes. he must have been gazing at her, smiling, eating away and taunting with a tone of eye that said, "nah nah nah...this seed is so good!...whatcha going to do about it?"
“dennis! You get that gun and take that little stinker out. Look at the nerve of him!"
It is great to see my folks. As they age, the time I get with them seems to be more interesting and fun. I can only hope that when I get older, my character flaws will become comedic.
If you can, please bow your head and say a prayer for the naughty squirelito. If it was just dad, I could put Vaseline in the scope or move the focus, or sights, let him live a longer life. when mom orders a hit, the thing is as good as dead. I am surprised she doesn’t have dad sleeping out on his chair in a ghillie suit with his pellet gun sticking out the window.
i wonder if dad will want an apple or lemon pie?