Play dead.

The squirrels have taken up residence in the attic again.

It’s been a couple of years since the bushy tailed critters have made the space above our heads their home and I can’t say I am on the welcome wagon committee for them. For one thing they are noisy. I am not sure what they are doing up there but it sounds like they are setting up a rodent bowling alley. They must also have some sort of detection device that sets off an alarm when I drift off to sleep so they can make extra loud noises to wake me back up.

The last time we went thru this we purchased what is known as a humane trap. It’s not so much that I love the four footed squatters and wouldn’t harm a whisker on their little faces as the fact that if I poison them they will undoubtedly die in the attic and stink for months.

The problem is to get to the spot where the grey interlopers live part time we have to move almost three lifetimes worth of attic junk out of the way. Then pile it all back again when we catch the furry fiends. Last time we did just that and exiled the squirrel far far away in a field of tall grass.

But this year the long suffering wife has balked at the admittedly daunting prospect of moving all that crap and suggested we park the trap outside on the path the squirrels use to gain access to their rent free abode. The trap was set and baited with small squares of bread with peanut butter spread on them to make it even more attractive to the bushy tailed bastards.

After finding the bait gone and no squirrels I watched the trap closely and saw a chipmunk nonchalantly scurrying inside the trap and grabbing the bait, he being too light to trip the mechanism.

But with the wisdom gained from years of country living I persisted and continued feeding the chipmunk for a week or so.

And then the incident.

One cold, dark and stormy morning I headed out to check and make sure the chipmunk would have his daily bread when I noticed something in the trap!

Could it be we had caught Mr. Squirrel?

No, but it could have been worse I guess.

Inside the trap and clearly not too happy abut his predicament was the biggest opossum I have ever seen. I mean this guys tail was as big around as a garden hose. He was too big to turn around in the trap and hissed at me from inside his prison showing far too many teeth. I carried the trap a good distance from the house and opened the door.

A thrilling moment for both of us

I didn’t hang around to see him or her make good the escape but later on that day the trap was empty. How could it have been worse? One word.


I think we will moving junk in the attic again soon.

Want to go back to today’s Blog post for 1/19/11? Click here

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About James Rising

A recovering radio addict wrestles with the written word.
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