I go outside every morning, come rain, sleet, snow, ice or shine, and I do my morning farm chores. Now this usually consists of me mucking in the mud like a duck for about half an hour, trying to rinse out and fill all the water buckets used by the birds on the farm. Now, with well over sixty ducks, six geese, four pheasants, nine quail, and Lord knows how many chickens, that's a lot of birds to water. But the job gets done, and I must say, it gets done correctly the first time--or I will certainly hear about it. No, I don't have an employer who stands over me cracking a whip and dictating QS-9000 rules to me all day long. What I do have is a brown, furry little chap or chapette named Snotblossom, who sits in a tree lecturing me if I so much as look as though I may stray from the constructive path.
Yes, I am referring to my semi-pet squirrel, who definitely has some clear ideas about how the job should be done. It is almost as if the little dictator is trying to protect all those birds from the evil monster that I must be. As soon as I pick up the garden hose and make a bee-line for my destination, that squirrel takes a position front and center and begins to dictate. It starts as loud chatter, and usually finishes with a weird choppy sound that usually shakes the whole animal, making me wonder if it is going to suddenly have a coronary right before my eyes. If I ignore Snotblossom and do not speak to her, (him?) that squirrel will run to the nearest pine cone, pick it, run back and toss it at my head. This is my cue to say, "good morning, squirrel. You missed me, you little nut-case."
Then I hear more chatter, which sounds a lot like squirrely giggles to my ear, and off Snotblossom goes to fetch more pine cones. What ensues at that point is a lot like running the old fashioned gauntlet, trying to do my work while dodging falling cones. I will tell you one thing, though, the job gets done a whole lot faster when Snotblossom is on the job with me. Take this afternoon for instance. I went out with a handful of red ribbons to tie to the perimeter of the fenced-in bird yards, which, legend has it, will help keep out wild birds of prey that like to eat helpless little ground-bound birds. I tied them up in the two duck yards with only the ducks and geese to guide and direct me in the job, but when I got to the two chicken yards, Snotblossom suddenly woke up and happily scooted down a tree to yell at me for a moment, then scooted away again, chuckling its squirrely little laugh. Apparently I had tied my ribbon to the wrong tree.
Snotblossom, failing to make it clear to me which tree should get the ribbon, finally turned its back in disgust and snorted away, still grumbling. I'm really surprised that I didn't get a conk on the noggin with a pine cone for my insolence. That squirrel is present for nearly everything we do outside, and seems to enjoy the honorary title of dictator for life. While the chickens merely stared at the ribbons in befuddlement, Snotblossom, up in the tree, was apparently looking down on my project with an artistic eye. At an elevated angle I suppose it would look different than it did to me, but I was not there to put on frills. Of course, I was wrong, and I admit it. I apologize profusely, Snotblossom, but I just don't have your talent.
I believe I gave Snottyface a rude greeting one morning. In the duck barn there was something scurrying around in a space between the ceiling and the insulation. This is usually the habitation of the local mice but on that particular morning, the scurrying sounded like something a lot bigger. So, I grabbed the broom we keep out there to sweep down spiderwebs from the ceiling and gave the wiggling lump a good, swift poke. There was a loud, startled squeak, some disgusted chattering, and a lot more scurrying as Snotblossom made a hasty retreat out a hole that had rotted away in a wooden panel on the side of the barn.
Up a tree went the squirrel and down rained a torrent of squirrel cussing that curled my hair. So there, and take that! I guess I had it coming.
Snotblossom had a rather rough summer however. I saw that poor squirrel on the hottest day of the season, a day that could have melted rubber, lying on its tummy atop a wooden gate, doing its best impression of a dead squirrel. Its tail hung limply, its chin was pressed to the wood, one little front leg was hanging down, and I felt so sorry for that poor squirrel. I wondered, as I wiped the sweat from my brow, how I would feel out in that kind of weather if I were wearing a fur coat. That's pretty much what Snotblossom looked like at that moment, an empty skin. Poor thing was probably dreaming of having a zipper installed in that squirrel coat. As I was out there in shorts and a tee shirt, I probably deserved all the pine cones to my skull. There's always a show-off in every crowd.
Snotblossom has tried on several occasions, to become a house pet. It climbs the windows, and peers in with big, wide eyes, looking for all the world like one of those stuffed toys with suction cups on its four limbs that you see in car windows. As cute and cuddly as a squirrel is however, I would dare say it would wreak havoc inside a house. Perhaps that is part of Snotblossom's problem. It wants the chance to do-se-do with all those cute little knick-knacks. Someday old Snotty will probably discover a previously unknown entrance into the house, and will make itself quite to home, thank you very much. Until then, however, it will have to content itself with bombing my head with pine cones and shouting advice from the tree tops. After all, everyone knows that humans need constant supervision. If you don't believe that, just ask any cat. They know everything anyway, just like squirrels.
