You love ‘em. You hate ‘em. But, if you feed the birds, you definitely have them. Me, I have a legal contract with my squirrels. I agree to do everything humanly possible to protect the seed, and they agree to eat it anyway. I’ve tried it all….I’ve installed baffles, cages and domes. I’ve peppered; I’ve sprayed. I once tried hanging the feeders on bungee cords, thinking the up-and-down movement would discourage them. The next morning, there was a sign in the yard, “WELCOME TO DISNEYSQUIRREL”. They were bouncing, and twirling, and having the time of their lives. And, of course, the feeders were empty.

It was a balmy spring day, when I realized that these were no ordinary squirrels. This revelation came while I was sitting in my home office, and I glanced out the window to see one little rodent after another emerging from a hollow in a huge oak tree. There must have been fifty of them. “Wow”, I thought. “it’s like one of those clown cars!” That’s when it became clear to me that I was dealing with circus squirrels. Suddenly it all made sense. The elaborate acrobatics, the death defying leaps, the fearless hanging by a toenail (without a net, mind you). I’m no biologist, and my Latin is really rusty, but I do believe that this species must be called “Squirrelus Flyingwallendas”.

After I discovered this, it put a whole new light on things. I stopped fretting, and just started enjoying the show. Forget your “three ring circus”. There were simultaneous tightrope walkers, trapeze artists, gymnasts, acrobats, clowns, and ringmasters everywhere you looked. The bravest squirrel of all was an amazing female (I think) that I called Wanda. She would systematically defeat every new trick I threw her way. If she tried a maneuver and failed, she would go back and try something else, but she never made the same mistake twice. Eventually she’d figure out how to get to the loot. Often this involved some elaborate sequence of well-choreographed movements, but once she nailed it, there was no stopping her. The smartest (and laziest) squirrel was Wanda’s mate, Fat Wally, who would merely sit on the ground and reap the benefit of Wanda’s gyrations. As seed would shake out of the feeder, he’d just position himself under it, and scoff it up. He’d eat until he couldn’t move, and then he’d get this glazed look on his face. I swear, I could almost hear him call, “Bring me a beer, Wanda.”

There is one member of the crew, though, that really has me intrigued. I refer to him as the Elusive Roadie. He’s the one who doesn’t bother trying to conquer the feeders with athletic prowess. He just takes them apart. I’m serious. I find them in pieces on the ground. I’ve never seen him, but I know he exists. And I’ll know him when I finally spot him. He’ll be the one wearing a little tool belt.