Category: WIld Life Guests

Oh, yes, those squirrels…they lead us on, they chatter incessantly, scream when we don’t listen but their biggest talent is survival.  So continues the saga of L’il Rascal, L’il Scalawag and L’il Angel, the Sequel to our post: Squirrels-Just-Wanna-Have-Fun.

Early the following morning or there about, the brothers were back with their shy grey sister, L’il Angel.  As you can guess, now L’il Rascal and L’il Scalawag did not even bother hiding but frolicked around the shed room floor with wild abandon.  They gnawed holes in our bags of cat food (they really liked the expensive brand) and just played around as L’il Angel nervously peaked around the recycling bin, refusing to join in with her brothers’ mischievous behavior.

Now Wonder Boy has a theory that most of the criminals are locked up today because somewhere, some way, women they knew, talked.  His assumption has been proved by watching all the Reality Cop Shows, wherein women, whose sense of justice sometimes overcome their fear, will spill the beans, and or press their family members to ‘fess up.  That is why we believe L’il Angel went back to Mamma Squirrel and told her that L’il Rascal and L’il Scalawag no longer acted like Wildlife. They seemed to think they were the family pets.  You know that could only end in disaster.

‘Enough’, said Mama Squirrel and she waited to the evening fell, and the family were all snoring in their beds.  Off she went to reclaim her babies and to take them off to the land of squirrels in the great outdoors, that had magnificent trees, hundreds of years old, wherein you could hide in their thick green foliage, on a branch spacious enough to house a family of five (Mama, Papa, L’il Rascal, L’il Scalawag and L’il Angel Squirrel).    Only when Mama arrived, in the land of towering trees with branches reaching to heaven, did she notice that L’il Rascal was MIA (missing in action).  Fine, she reasoned, she would leave him in the shed room another day and make him stew a bit, miss them, then he would be happy to join his family way up in the tree top.

The next morning arrived.  When Momma opened the door to the shed room there was L’il Rascal, front and centre to greet them. Now he was a L’il Kling-On because he absolutely attached himself to their feet, climbing up their pant legs.

When they tried to shake him off, he stood on his hind legs, little paws together in prayer, beseeching them with his little beady eyes to understand.  They were his family now. How would they treat a pet so abysmally? Momma quickly barred his entrance in to the kitchen with a recycling bin.  There was a line and no way would he be allowed to step over it no matter how handsome a little black squirrel he was.

Momma, (not like her father before her), would not wage a battle every time she opened the shed room door. All possible courses of action were laid out with RIP Daddy.  After much discussion, with much pity, RIP Daddy put on gloves, picked up L’il Rascal and deposited him on the steps.  L’il Rascal was perplexed.  Why was he being ejected?  What had he done but love us?  L’il Rascal’s questioning eyes broke RIP Daddy’s heart, so he stooped down, scooped him up and returned him to the shed room floor.  L’il Rascal scurried over to his favorite recycling bin, climbed in, covering under the daily newspaper.

When Momma went out later, L’il Rascal purred and cooed to let her know his location (and to let her know he won, she lost). Momma did not know that was the last purring and cooing they would hear.  Now they can not swear this is what happened but like to think, in the still of the dark night, Mama Squirrel who understood her Prodigal Son came and gathered him up. Yes, they believe L’il Rascal went willingly, finally adventured to capacity, eager not only to tell his tale but also to embrace a squirrel’s life.

Momma says she saw evidence of L’il Rascal today in her back garden.  All the pods had been stripped off her pussy will bush. Also, she is  sure it was you, L’il Rascal, streaking down the sidewalk, L’il Scalawag and L’il Angel trying in vain to catch up with you.  Please, remember to look both ways before you cross the street.  Momma would feel so guilty, if you ended up as road kill.  Momma can’t believe she is saying this, but it has been very quiet in the shed room, since you left.  They kind of miss your family.  For sure, they will never forget you.

So Bye, Bye, Bye, L’il Rascal, Bye, Bye.

 

You remember. When RIP Daddy still was alive, one day he went to the Shed Room and there was Mama Squirrel, bold as brass, rescuing her Baby Black Squirrel. (AKA, L’il Rascal). Momma said they thought that Mama and Poppa Squirrel had things under control, but never kid a kidder.  It seems this era of Squirrels-Just-Wanna-Have-Fun are part of the Millennium Generation, whose sense of entitlement is as large as the universe and as guaranteed as death and taxes.  How would you know this, you ask?  Well, we are so glad you took the time to ask (or did you)?

The next few days in the shed room were uneventful.  Then all hell broke loose.  Wonder Boy heard the shrill shriek of a squirrel, as he toasted his bagel in the kitchen. He opened the kitchen door and called, ‘Squirrel, shut up, already.’ There was total silence.  He closed the door, went back to the toaster and then he heard it, again, more plaintive than demanding, this time.  It was unmistakable hysterical sobbing, that would make anyone with an ounce of compassion ask, ‘What can I do?’

Gingerly, Wonder Boy and Momma stepped into the Shed Room and started looking around to see where the crying came from.  It was not on the floor, not on the ceiling rafters, no, it seemed to be half way up the wall.  Wonder Boy pointed.  There was a plastic bag, stuffed with more plastic bags, hanging on a hook and from the way it was moving, it was either possessed by the Holy Spirit or had unexpectedly became the home of a squirrel who did not listen to authority figures when warned of the perils of unknown danger lurking outside the perimeters of the home base.

Wonder Boy, being a strategist, put on gloves, grabbed a broom and carefully lifted the bag off the hook.  Momma’s job was to open the back door in order to release the captured prey in the back yard.  Of course as Momma pushed the door open, it got caught on the carpet on the floor, which made Wonder Boy anxious and added traitorous seconds to a job that should have been swift, accurate and finished before it started.  So, like the young Mr. Trudeau, Momma is  just not ready yet (Canadian will get the meaning) to join the Green Beret, the CIA or JSOC.

However finally the door was opened, Wonder Boy manoeuvred  the bags in a bag on a broom handle out the door and set it down on the back yard.  Now from the shrieks we had heard, we expected it was Mr. Grey or Mrs. Black Grey Squirrel.

No, out hopped L’il Rascal Squirrel, going like the proverbial Road Runner, somehow managing to find a pile of slabs and rocks that he squeezed his body through, then peeked out with a grin on his face, at the family cats, prowling around, sniffing disdainfully, tails in the air, obviously recognizing bad behavior when they saw it.  Not that the cats ever seemed to attack squirrels but without the protection of Momma and Poppa, it can be a cold, hard, cruel world.

Mission accomplished. Wonder Boy and Momma went inside and worried.  Would Momma Squirrel rescue him again or was L’il  Rascal more trouble then he was worth?

They need not have been concerned.  Next morning when they stepped in to the shed room, they were greeted with the purrs and coos of L’il Rascal, who hid behind the recycling bins, but with Wonder Boy’s encouragement (purring back, saying. “Hey, Little Buddy”) he would stick his head out and make eye contact.   Apparently yesterday’s liberation from the plastic bag with bags inside was a bonding experience and the family had earned his trust.

Again the next morning L’il  Rascal was back. This time he brought his grey sibling, L’il Scallywag.  The L’il Rascal had to show off how tight he was with the family, as he would actually come out every time Wonder Boy called him.

However L’il Scalawag, with generations of caution bred in his DNA, kept hidden and purred and cooed only. Okay, okay, Momma likes wild life but is more her mother’s daughter in that she does not want them running over her feet when she stepped in to the shed room and never in the house.  She imagines fleas on every surface, scratching as if she had a combination of chicken pox and measles. Her way or the high way, our Momma.

I have got to say, it is a good job this family of squirrels did not come around in my day.  I would have put the boots to them.  I can be so annoying that it can be a curse and a blessing. And I don’t care how cute you are with your beady little eyes and bushy tails, you are not living in my Kingdom come.

However, in those long ago days it was Zanny territory.  Her attitude was ‘If you can’t beat them, join them.’  You can’t encourage these types especially because well, because L’il Rascal was a rascal (as was Zanny). So stay tuned.

Something happened that may call for a Special Investigation. On Saturday night, the first day of summer, while the moon was high in the sky and the twinkling stars called out to all, we were robbed……by unknown but highly suspected undesirables and unreliables….

Our cherry tree, pregnant with red, juicy cherries was systematically stripped.  I mean, nothing, nada, not even a yellow cherry, shaded by the greenest green leaves, was left.

Momma, Wonder Boy and I, Jakita, had stepped out to enjoy the early summer morning ambience, the Sunday church bells beckoning in the distance, calling all saints and sinners, to their Sanctuaries.  We stood there, mouths agape.  How could this happen? Who should we call?

I can’t say for sure but probably the local boys in blue (police) would laugh at us.  Now if there were cherries on the tree that they could taste, that might be evidence, a lure, even.  But there was no bait.  And the RCMP and CSIS are busy treading water with the way of the world we live in. No, unless there was a terrorist up the tree, they would not come.

That left it to me to figure it out.  Was it a Two Footed Special Ops Team that swooped in with silent helicopters and uniquely trained sky divers, with night vision goggles? Could they dangle on ropes, secured to the Mothership, picking every cherry off a tree?  Probably that would be a ‘No’ but I may have come upon a good training session.

I am sure it was not Two Footed with ladders because they don’t make ladders as tall as our cherry tree.  Besides, we would have heard the commotion of dragging ladders and would have seen the bright lights needed to so emphatically clean the tree of its cherries. Besides, those Two Footed are a clumsy bunch.  Someone would have fallen off the ladder and broken a leg, or arm or even a neck.  Next thing you know a 9-1-1 call would bring out the Fire Department, Police and the Ambulance, all with blaring sirens and flashing red lights.  We would not sleep through that. No, it could not be the Two Footed.

That leaves the Wildlife as the culprit. I am talking a consorted effort of Squirrels (probably led by Mr. Grey Squirrel), Mr. Rocky Raccoon and Family (we see them doing their nocturnal runs), the opossum (he is back and fatter than ever) and the twittering birds of many type and color (except ssshhh no one tell those annoying crows).

Even so, to do such a thorough job they needed just right circumstances.  Does Wildlife have their own SWOT (Special Weather Operation Technician) on standby, to tell them when  perfect conditions would make their manoeuvre a success?  How do they communicate from family to family, tonight is the night?  They do not have cell phones or social media to advise there will be a flash cherry picking party at a certain location, at a certain date and time.  They must chirp the message from tree to tree, from nest to nest. Or do they tie a yellow ribbon, visible to wildlife eyes only, around the cherry tree trunk? And there is one more confounding thing.

Our Andy-Long-Legs Cat and the Diva Gen  Cat decided to stay inside that night, which they never do, on a perfect summer night.  Did the plan proceed at the last moment because our cats were inside or had the cats picked up on the chatter and that is why they stayed in?

There are so many things to ponder. We may never know the answer.  The good news is there are no more hard, green cherries falling on my head, hitting the ground, causing chaotic slip and falls. Also, Momma will not have to sweep the sidewalk three times a day of  endless fallen cherries, some partially consumed (seems Wildlife is as fussy as me about food) and no more ugly pits.  One more year, our cherry tree blossomed to perfection and produced to a maximum.  We just don’t know where the Baby Cherries went……………Still………..Long live the Cherry Tree!

PS: I noticed on Sunday, there were no squirrels hanging about!  Were they catching up on their sleep from their all night flash party, as well as bloated from their feast, hung over on cherry juice?

But I know those squirrels.

They love a scavenger hunt.  They’ll be back!

 

Those loud, self aggrandizing squirrels are back and I, Jakita,  for one, am not pleased.  And if I have Momma figured out, she is not too happy either.  They are a nuisance.  It just may be me, but I think that every generation of squirrels get more self-serving and brazen.  Let me tell you what I have to put up with.

Let us start with the jabbering.  I go out to the back yard, seeking solace and shade. In a matter of seconds (it seems), there is a legion of baby squirrels, sitting on the roof of our garage and vocalizing their discontent of my existence.  Truthfully, I don’t understand squirrel gibberish, but they seem very displeased with something. To my way of thinking, all squirrels have a poor attitude.

If I am lucky enough to fall asleep before they notice me, it is game on, with me, serving as the target board.  They zip up the cherry tree, bite off green cherries, fly from the tree limb to the fence, scoot over to the maple tree I am napping under and drop hard cherries on my head. I awake in a fright, to their high-pitched malevolent cackle.  I jump up in full attack mode, barking so ferociously that Mr. Grey Squirrel and Mrs Black (Grey) Squirrel stumble out of their nest, half asleep, to see what the commotion is about.  No kidding, Mr. Grey Squirrel expels a sharp command and his progeny disappear with him and Mrs. Black (Grey) Squirrel. I revel in the knowledge that the Baby Squirrels are being sent back to their nest for a time out… we hope until they learn how to behave in public.

However, those squirrels get really audacious in the front yard cherry tree.  I watch them fly from the tree to the rooftop, then back to the tree, swinging on branches, cherries of every color, white, green, red, pelting down on the top of the cat’s heads, on the veranda, the sidewalk, the driveway.

Then they scramble down the tree trunk and take a bite out of one –like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, the first cherry is too sour – they take the next one, still a little yellow, finally the third cherry is red and ready. Their sharp little teeth consume the pulp. The pit is spit out.  You have to look down to make sure you do not step on discarded cherries or pits because, well, you will be doing a Gerald Ford trip and fall and honestly, they sit high in the branches and laugh at you. Those green cherries and pits are as hard and dangerous as stepping on glass marbles.

Every day, three times a day, Momma has to go and sweep the steps and sidewalk to avoid taking a slider. I mean, Momma can’t place a law suit against squirrels.  They can not reimburse your medical bills when you fall and break a bone or two, can they? Maybe a Class Action Suit against….well, let me think about it. Meanwhile Momma has put wind chimes in the trees. Squirrels do not like the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the chimes.  I will let you know how that goes.

Yet for all their short comings, I have a secret admiration for squirrels (shsh).  I love their bushy tails and how they persistently chase Wonder Boy for peanuts.  They come close, then closer, then grab the peanut from his hand, with their tiny paws, sit on their haunches, eyeballing Wonder Boy, then come back begging for more.  I am amazed how their back paws can swivel to climb down trees.  And who is better at scrounging for food? Squirrels could teach the Four Footed and the Two Footed survival skills. Also, as Mr. Grey Squirrel said in an earlier blog, they have lived in, around and near our home for generations.  They Owned the Podium (long before the Canadians), and are not going anywhere soon.

No one can say they have not earned their Squatter’s Rights!.….

But please, I beg of you, NIMBY (Not In My Backyard), okay?

 

I was just sitting on the back of the couch, in the sun room, surveying my kingdom.  And then I saw, what is that, a rabbit, no look again, a Mama Rabbit and her bunnies. Oh no, a whole rabbit family to destroy my RIP Daddy’s tulips, both the petals and the blooms, that flood our front garden in a Sea of Colours in the Spring. 

Then comes summer, those hoppity-hop nose twitching bunnies that resolutely pick every rosebud off the bushes, eat all the lettuce from the garden, right down to the ground and hide in the tall foliage in my flowerbeds in the back yard.  They are just a nuisance, I tell you.

Truly, I don’t know what to make of rabbits. Remember Grandpapa’s meeting with Peter Cottontail. Now that was a Rabbit! Then there was the lovable Thumper in Bambi. Yet, they seem so silent, hardly vocalizing, at least not when they are in our garden. Still, it gives me pause when they thump their mighty paws, and give me that red-eyed stare, their mouths and ears in constant motion. They fascinate me.   My loud barking traumatizes them so they dart away, jet propelled.  I just want to get closer to look at those pinned backed long ears, standing straight up especially, the pretty pink twitching ears of a white rabbit.

 

What makes me the most amazed, and I am no expert, but I am sure the same bunny can be white in the winter and turn brown in the summer.  Now that is a neat trick – like the Two Footed who go pale in the winter and tan in the summer sun. What gives? How come I am the same color all year round, I ask?

We dogs are so upfront and in your sorry face in comparison to a stealth rabbit.  Momma tells Super Boy that the dog who lives next door to him (who looks like a Professor to her) apparently thinks Momma looks like a bad guy, so always barks at her when she drops by his apartment.

Momma tells the Professor Dog, ‘SSSHHHH, you are a good doggie.’  He always stops barking and Momma swears he tilts his head, raises his bushy eye brows and says, ‘How do you know I am a good doggie?’ He just needs a pair of spectacles added and the whole world would recognize he was a professor in a previous life. Momma tells Super Boy to be sure to give him a treat.  The Professor Dog is doing his best to keep his Master and Super Boy safe.

That’s what we dogs do for the world at large. We protect our loved ones from the bad guys.  Still, I have a soft spot for those pesky rabbits because they have to use their wits to make it to tomorrow. And they all can not be Peter Cottontails and Thumpers. Therefore, I am telling you truly, I will continue to practise, ‘Do No Harm.’ Should I see one of our cats getting too aggressive with Mama Rabbit and her Baby Bunnies, I promise to take swift action….oh, and I will include a new Procedure in my Policy and Procedures for All Creation:

Regulation 23:                                                                                                                    All

Rabbits and their families shall henceforth be escorted off the  premises only by loud barking and /  or a fair chase.                                                              Subsection(A):    There shall be:

•  No interference or physical contact with any rabbit
•  No attempt to carry any rabbit
• No infliction of any harm or physical pain on any rabbit

Revised: 5/2/2015

What do you think? Are you on board?

Signed:                          Senorita Jakita of Jakitaville

To you, I am a Raccoon, wild life without borders, turning over your trash can to make way with your left overs, stealing from your fruit trees; home invaders that are willing to settle for sheds if we can not penetrate your attic.

To me I am Rocky Racket Raccoon along with my Ms.  Rockette Raccoon and the Kits, just trying to make a living out of poor man’s dirt, as the song goes,  so give me a break, already.

We are incredibly marked with black fur encircling our eyes, off set  by shades of creamy to bright white fur. Our tails are ringed black and grey capped with a black tip. Our bodies are sturdy in the summer when we scavenge for food, leaner in the winter months when we do with less. We are motley shades of light black to dark grey. But it is our paws that resemble human hands in looks and dexterity, that amuse and amaze the Two Footed. Momma and Wonder Boy are no exception. We use them to fish, to carry kits, to climb trees, much like human but no guns, this is Canada, eh?

Some of our best friends are the cats in the neighbor hood. It is a fact, every morning, bright and early, I used to wake up, saunter up the porch steps and thump on the front door. Momma would open it, black and white Cat Mao and I would go walking down the sidewalk to the neighbor’s ornamental pool, flush with tropical fish.  We thought we were in Heaven as we splashed and perpetuated the Circle of Life.  For some odd reason, the Two Footed Owners were not so supportive.  They closed their pond forever, draining and filling it in. They planted rose bushes with thorns that ripped my fur out if I tried to poach a sweet rose bud.  I am just hoping the owners don’t get that rose-bush thorn infection.  It is just nasty…. 🙂

We are a happy-go-lucky bunch, and can acclimatize to many home settings.  That is why like the feral cats, we lived at the some of the ‘Too Big to Fail’ Auto Manufacturing Plants.  I have been told that upon occasion a raccoon would dive bomb the huge scrap bins, looking for food. The Maintenance Department would come with a ladder. Momma, as the Human Resource Manager would be called to sweet talk the raccoons out of the bin.  After all, those bins were for scrap steel. It was no place for a raccoon to stake a claim. They would sit and ponder exactly what Momma was telling them, then head to the side, deep in concentration, their unwavering eyes showing intelligence and trust.  Then they would walk over, climb up the ladder, jump off the side of the bin and scamper to shelter. Survival 101?

However my family have lived at this location as long as Mr. Grey Squirrel’s family. We got that, what do you call it – Squatters Rights.  We are not giving up our home because twenty years ago a family moved in with pets.  No, we adapt …..and play with them, on moonlit nights, under the cherry tree.

I tell you, who does not like a party?  Here in the garage, on an arctic mass winter day, ensconced on boards, running from rafter to rafter, Mama Rockette and I are huddled down, waiting for spring and remembering that perfect summer night, especially made for the nocturnal. We were all there. Wonder Boy was sitting on the bench, contemplating life and nature in his midst. The squirrels were high in the cherry tree, shaking the branches, raining ripe and not so ripe cherries to the ground.  The Indoor Outdoor Cats – there were four of them that night – were laying down Egyptian style, paws tucked under, on the steps.  With startling speed they would dive off the stairs, catch a cherry which looked so red, so sweet, so inviting, in mid-air, grimacing when their teeth pierced the cherry skin.  They would spit them out, tails twitching and march back up the steps.  That is when Mamma Rockette and I went wild, scooping the cherries up, swallowing them whole, pits and all.

Meanwhile, we still had our eyes on our three kits who were crawling up the steps, making friendly with the cats, while we feasted and gorged.  They would reach out their tiny paws and bat the cats playfully, who looked frozen. The Kitty Cat Club Med instinctively recognized that our kits were off limit.  They looked to Wonder Boy, pleading with their eyes, make the parents step up.  No worry, Mama Rockette was on the job.  She growled quietly as she mounted the steps, swatting her exuberant kits, directing down the stairs, and back to their nests, where they tumbled eagerly in position, to fall asleep as they nursed.

Mama Rockette and I, we are some of the lucky ones. We have learned it is much easier to live with Two Footed and their civilized pets than the predators that lurk in and are covered by, the deep, dark menacing forest.

Still, I don’t want any other raccoons moving in.                                             There are invisible / divisible borders in place and we expect all wild life to respect them….Got it, already?

Like this: See Without Boarders or Borders?

 Mr. Grey Squirrel                                                                                                           Mr. Grey Squirrel  Moves In                                                                        Keeping Up with Mr. Grey Squirrel

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

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