Friday, May 13, 2016

The Maniac is Back.

My tomato plants are growing like weeds, every morning the little green balls get bigger and multiply like rabbits. I live in the suburbs. You know what that means...yes, it's open season on that most diabolical of backyard rodents, that furry ball of menace, God's big mistake...the ground squirrel.

They sit up on their haunches up in the trees at the edge of my back yard casting their beady eyes on my tomatoes, plotting their evil schemes. The older ones stay away. They know the fate of their kind who dare to enter my yard. Many of them are still nursing wounds from past years from glancing flesh wounds administered by my Daisy Powerline 35. Squirrels know it only as the Swift Sword of Death. The older ones sit around in their little squirrel legislative assembly and try to warn the kids about the maniac who lives on Aprilbud Drive. But, kids being kids, they don't listen. Instead, they try their luck. They send probing parties around the perimeter of my deck. One such scouting party wandered in this afternoon, and were met with the merciless strafing fire of the DP35. It was over in seconds.

Word will soon spread in the squirrel community that the Maniac Is Back. But it won't matter. Every year there is some up and coming hot shot in the group who thinks he's the one born to take me out. He will rally a group of equally delusional idiots bent on fame and glory...and my tomatoes. But my aim is true. I will unleash old Daisy on this year's sacrificial lambs and my back yard will be transformed into the great killing fields of squirrel myth. Only it's no myth...the destruction will be pitiless. 

But, alas, every year one gets through, usually under the cover of darkness. I wake up to find little teeth marks surrounding a quarter-sized plug that's been taken out of my most ripe Better Boy who was just days short of the harvest. I will be apoplectic with rage. Prior to this outrage, my attacks have been purely defensive. But now, I start a revengeful hunt. My neighbors start to give me fitful glances when they see me back there, and clutch their young children close. But, at the end of the day, my garden will be protected from these freeloaders at all cost.

Semper Fi.