11.22.06
Little Red Rat Bastard
This boppin’ an’ jivin’ critter was captured on camera last summer by the Reluctant Blogger in front of his cabin on Lake Superior. It is a red squirrel, whose Latin name is Tamiascurus hudsonicus. R.B. knows the species as “Little Red Rat Bastard.”
Red squirrels are cute and furry, and help the North Woods survive by spreading nuts like tiny Johnny Appleseeds, but to a cabin dweller they are major pains in the ass, destructive pests of the first order.
One lovely day two years ago, Mr. and Mrs. R.B. arrived at the cabin to begin their summer sojourn and opened the door to a scene of devastation. The first thought was to call the sheriff and report that teen-agers had broken in, partied and trashed the place.
The living room was a sea of torn paper and scattered knickknacks, upended china and exploded pillows. The bedrooms were the same, and the bathroom was festooned with shredded toilet tissue. In the kitchen, cereal boxes had been ripped open and flour dumped on the floor. Peanut shells were strewn all about.
But no windows had been broken, no doors forced, no beer cans littered on the floor. Hmm. After two hours of cleaning, we discovered a squirrel midden full of seeds and nuts high atop a cabinet in the kitchen. Then we found the point of entry under the woodpile by the fireplace: a gnawed three-inch gash in the floorboards.
With hardware cloth and a slab of pine R.B. covered the hole — but over the next two nights we heard scrabbling in the kitchen. Little Red Rat Bastard either was locked in or had a back door.
We are kindly, animal-loving souls, and anyway we couldn’t spread rat poison in the cabin because of Hogan, the Lab. So we borrowed a Havahart humane trap, placed it on the kitchen floor and baited it. Two nights later we heard a clang — and there was Little Red Bastard, chattering and screeching at us through the bars.
We released him in the woods miles away. Later that day we found and plugged up two presumptive back doors.
Two nights later we heard scrabbling under the cabin, and the next day, perched on a log in front of the cabin, was Little Red Rat Bastard or another of his ilk, giving us the finger.
Red squirrels are solitary, territorial and opportunistic. When one moves out (or is moved out), another moves in, often noisily contesting others for possession. There was no shortage of competition, either. The cabin lies spang in the middle of a busy animal boulevard to the cabin of a neighbor who feeds the creatures of the forest all day, all night and all year. (This explains where the peanut shells came from.)
Red squirrels, we soon learned, are persistent to a fault. Scrabble scrabble scrabble. If there was a way to get in, L.R.R.B. would find it.
Did I say we are animal lovers? But it was either L.R.R.B. or us, and Nature is red in tooth and claw. So R.B. obtained a high-powered air rifle with a scope (Mrs. R.B. nixed a .22), baited a twig with peanut butter, and waited in ambush on a lawn chair with a glass of merlot.
There is no need to go into details about the squirricidal spree that followed, except to thank Tina Davidson, a frequent visitor, for her contributions to the enterprise. She is a better shot than R.B. (and takes better sunset photographs, too).
Last summer we had the cabin chinked and floorboards repaired, closing every possible (we hope) point of entry. Next spring we will see if perhaps at last we can peacefully coexist with Little Red Ra — oops, Tamiascurus hudsonicus. But don’t bet on it.
