Bob
For most of my life, I have lived in country settings. While I’ll admit I’ve enjoyed the excitement and benefits of living an urban existence for a while, I continually am drawn back to the freedom and solitude found in the country.
I like having my own land with space to do whatever I want. I do tend to be overly enthusiastic about monitoring my property lines. I’ve spent countless hours marking, surveying, and pointing out the borders of my parcel to anyone who will listen. I’ve spent afternoons searching for the corner posts and tagging them with ribbons to note their locations.
Constantly vigilant, my binoculars are always at the ready to spot a stranger who might be doing something in my Fallston woods. Of course, my wife will never let me forget the hours I spent watching and wondering about the very mysterious “blob” set way back in the woods during a heavy winter snowstorm. Imagine my surprise and relief when she returned from the storm and told me it was a terrifying concrete block covered in snow!
Anyway, no matter where I have lived, there has always been one constant: SQUIRRELS! I’m not sure how much a squirrel has to eat to stay alive. Apparently, it’s a lot. I have learned this by simply watching Bob, our current resident squirrel. After sitting and watching Bob gorge himself at our bird feeders, I’ve often hollered, “My God, Bob! How much do you need to eat!”
You can tell Bob from the other squirrels by the tiny slit in his left ear. The slit, undoubtedly left from an ear tag he once wore, proudly declaring him, “BIRD SEED-EATING CHAMPION OF THE NORTHERN HEMISPHERE!”
It doesn’t matter what I do to keep Bob out of the bird feeders around the farm. He somehow manages to figure out the obstacles and finds his way to the feeding trough. I’ve seen him fly through the air from tree branch to feeder. I’ve seen him scamper up a greased pole. I’ve seen him swing like a trapeze artist by his front feet, propelling himself up and onto the feeder. It all would be pretty entertaining if it weren’t costing me 20 bucks a week in birdseed.
My wife suggested that we give Bob his own bowl. We thought the Crate & Barrel ceramic bowl with “BOB” emblazoned on the side should do the trick. We filled Bob’s bowl with birdseed and placed it on the deck far from the bird feeder in an attempt to lure him away. It worked at first. We triumphantly looked out the kitchen window to see Bob proudly sitting upright on his haunches, gnawing on a sunflower seed held adorably in his front claws. Bob seemed to love his personalized feeding station. At times, he invited pals Suzy and Carla to join him. I could only imagine him scampering through the woods, inviting his squirrel friends to his home at Rousedale Farm. I’m sure he mentioned his house was like a cruise ship with buffets virtually everywhere and his own private bowl!
Bob’s private buffet ended abruptly one day when his bowl was discovered by interlopers known around these here parts as “The Chicken Gang.” Bob skillfully tried to fight the chickens off by hiding behind a bush, and when one of the henagades got close to his bowl, he jumped out to scare her. It was to no avail, and once the chickens found the food source, it was all over for Bob and his friends. So we went from birds eating their bird food to Bob eating the bird’s food to chickens eating Bob’s food back to Bob eating the bird’s food. I kept thinking, Really, squirrel people, isn’t there enough food in the acres of woods for all of you?
I did confuse Bob for a while by installing a flattened piece of metal stovepipe with a round hole cut in the middle to slip over the bird feeder pole. My genius only lasted for a week or so. He eventually figured out the combination to the safe by leaping from the fence surrounding the deck, flying up through the air like Super Squirrel, and landing on the feeder. It was pretty impressive, really. I kept extending the pole the feeder sat on higher and higher until it was out of Bob’s flying range. I was happy with my accomplishment, even though now, I had to haul out the extension ladder every time the feeder needed to be topped off! This modern marvel took me weeks to figure out. I knew it wasn’t the best-looking contraption to have hovering over the deck behind the house, but it worked! Then, one day, my greatest fear was realized: the lady of the house told me the newly enhanced bird feeder was an eyesore and had to go. I knew deep down she was right.
So now, and I hate to admit this, I have given up. Bob, Suzy, and Carla visit the feeders regularly, and I regularly chase them off. My wife now accuses me of acting like an old man chasing kids off his lawn. She doesn’t know this, but while she’s at work, I play a game called “Touch the Squirrel on the Butt.” Much like Native American children who used to try to sneak up on unsuspecting deer to see if they could slap them on the behind before being discovered, I have invented a similar challenge. The game equipment is simply an old curtain rod that I have stretched out to about four feet to attempt the same kind of thrill. When I see Bob on the feeder, I dig down deep to call upon my two percent of Native American blood, quietly open the kitchen door, tiptoe out close to the feeder, slowly and steadily raise my curtain rod, and touch Bob on the butt. I seldom achieve my goal before he scatters with seed flying all around him, but when I do, the thrill of victory is exhilarating!
It’s really become a love/hate relationship. On days when I haven’t seen Bob, I begin to worry a little that maybe something happened to him. I ask my wife, “Have you seen Bob today?” She says she hasn’t. I begin to scan the woods. Could a hungry skunk have mauled Bob? The concern starts to build until, ah, there he is, bounding with breakneck speed toward the bird feeder so that I can chase him off again.
And so it goes: I lure Bob in with food, Bob fills his cheeks, I try to touch him on the butt with a curtain rod, and everybody’s happy.
© Steve Rouse
Steve Rouse has led an exciting life; from radio, TV, and voiceovers to lead singer, farmer, and writer! A daily writer of sketch comedy for a number-one morning show, television bits, and parody songs, along with weekly stories from the farm, has led to an interest in honing this thing called writing.
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