by Darlene Truman

Squirrels are the fly in the ointment of my husband’s otherwise peaceful home life. It’s not that Brian dislikes them; he just thinks that birds should eat at the bird feeder, and that everyone, including wildlife, should know the rules.

I’d noticed the disrespectful squirrels at the feeder and decided not to point them out. Nature was preparing for winter, another season of darkness, and I needed to think about the holidays. “Do you think we’re up to hosting Thanksgiving dinner here this year?” I asked.

Brian looked up from his laptop, concern in his eyes, and answered, “If you want to try, I’m with you.” What could be so hard about Thanksgiving dinner? We had prepared the meal many times, and always managed to enjoy some part of it, even if sometimes the sweetest moment was when everyone left. But everything was harder since we lost Desiree — especially holidays.

“I wonder if Chris will join us.” Chris, the son of my heart, was one of my daughters’ friends that I was glad to know. “I hope he’ll at least stop by. He makes everybody laugh.”

“Good idea, so Steph and her new boyfriend, your Mom, and Chris. I think that’s doable. You call everyone, and I’ll make the grocery list.”

Cold rain met us on Thanksgiving morning; at least the house smelled like turkey. Brian and I stood side by side at the kitchen sink peeling potatoes. “We’ll get through this,” he whispered leaning his head on mine.

My daughter Stephanie and her boyfriend Kevin showed up with empty stomachs and a broccoli casserole. Mom brought a bottle of wine. Chris came late as usual and entertained us, asking, “Did you know that liquid Downey should not be put into the dryer?” The wine warmed us all, and we had a pleasant meal. But conversation dwindled, and soon we found ourselves looking at our plates.

“I’ll clear the table if you load the dishwasher,” I offered my husband. Everyone leapt up to help. Scraping the leftover mashed potatoes into a container, someone pointed to the squirrel on top of the birdfeeder outside the kitchen window.

“No!” Brian said, slinging his dish towel to one side. “Not any more.” A declaration of war, or was this a diversion? Kevin joined the battle with a flanking strategy, going out through the garage armed with a baseball. Brian took a frontal attack out the kitchen door. Chris took over the command position at the kitchen table, shouting, “He’s coming toward you Kevin,” until the squirrel retreated into the trees, planning his next assault on the bird feeder.

Three generations of women looked at each other and shook their heads. This crusade was not a part of our holiday tradition, but I liked it better than strained silence.

“I wish I was so easily entertained,” I sighed.

“You’re not male,” my daughter answered. My mother reached for the wine bottle to pour us liquid fortitude.

The men regrouped to strategize, and the determined squirrel had another go at the birdfeeder right before their eyes. Enraged, the men took the same positions with the same results.

“This is becoming entertaining,” I said to my daughter as I handed her the last pot to dry. After another failed attempt, Brian stared out the window at the backyard misted in light rain. His face limp in resignation, he absently said, “If only I could get electricity to the pole.”

Chris, a licensed electrician, walked up next to him and clapped him on the shoulder. “You got any wire in the garage?”

My husband blinked at the wiry young man. “I have 12-2 wire, and we could use an old extension cord.” Kevin stepped forward, saying something about wire nuts and splicing. A nice diversion or not, water and electricity didn’t seem like a good mix to me, but I was overruled by the male army of three. Out they strode into the wilderness of the back yard, armed with wire, tape, and a metal pole that held the birdfeeder.

They hoped to prove that they were, in fact, smarter than a squirrel. I had my doubts. Stephanie, my mom, and I sat at the kitchen table, finishing up our wine, phones in hand, waiting to call 911 in case one of the boys got electrocuted in the rain. My mother soon tired and left for home.

After about half an hour, the wet guys joined us at the table, excitedly waiting for the unsuspecting squirrel to come back for another bite of bird food. It didn’t disappoint. The squirrel climbed the pole, stopping to look for men charging out of the bushes. It scurried a bit higher. No one in the kitchen dared to breathe. Chris had the plug in his hand, Brian in command, “Just wait for it . . . wait . . . NOW!” The squirrel jumped ten feet, landing in the grass. Startled but still healthy, he glanced over his shoulder in puzzlement.

The humans laughed until we cried, the boys victorious. And so it went again. And again. Squirrel-shocking amused us until the animal seemed in full retreat, so the others wandered into the living room to watch some football. I lingered, wiping off the table, as the darkness folded over me again. I missed Desiree. Our second Thanksgiving since she died, this one somehow seemed harder than the first, the absence of her laugh more permanent.

Night had also begun to claim the day. Through the gray rain, another squirrel, or perhaps the same, approached the birdfeeder. That little bastard, I thought, happy to be the only thing between the squirrel and the birdseed. My turn to defend, to even out the wrongs of life.

I waited, electric cord in my hand. Waited until the invader stood at the pinnacle of the pole. And then I plunged the plug into the socket. The squirrel jumped at least 20 feet. I shouted in victory, and everyone rushed in from the TV wondering what the noise was about. They soon cheered and teased me at the same time. “You got him,” they howled, “And you didn’t want us to set it up.”

The diversion worked, the darkness pushed back again, replaced with laughter and hugs.

Disclaimer: No animal or human was injured in the making of this story, including the squirrels that still eat birdseed daily from my birdfeeder.