Call Me Ishmael.

Some Hollywood producer a few years back had this great idea. “Let’s see if we can take the most boring, trite, predictable and disjointed story ever written in the English language and make it into a full length feature film!”. A few years and a few million dollars later we have the film version of the epic poem Beowulf. If you’ve ever read it, you know what I mean. But, it got me thinking. What is my saga? What is my epic story of good versus evil? To be Melvillian… what is my White Whale?

Squirrels.

I have had squirrels invade my home. It’s been going on for years now. It has become, if not epic in its own right, symbolically so. These are not just any squirrels. These are hyper-intelligent, poison-resistant rodents whose tenacity and cunning is matched only by an indefatigable hunger for destruction. They are quite literally consuming my world.

It started innocently enough. I could hear the scratching claws scurrying about the attic. They had chewed their way through a small area of my home where the siding, the roof and the chimney meet. Taking advantage of some minor water damaged wood to create their entrance. Little did I know how difficult it would be dislodge them from their new home… my home.

My first attempt involved rat traps--those little “snappy” traps on the small piece of wood that sometimes go off when you set them and make you react to the resulting pain like a cartoon character. I baited some traps with bits of food and set them around the attic. Needless to say the next day, the traps were sprung, the food was gone and the squirrels had been fed.

I moved on to rat poison. The strongest I could find. I sprinkled bags of delicious little morsels of toxicity about the attic--20 or 30 little bags of death. I left the wrappers mostly on and the boxes they came in the attic. Two days later, climbing the step ladder into the attic we made eye contact. There he was… rummaging through the empty bags of poison searching for more. He had acquired a taste for the stuff and needed another fix. Like a desperate crack addict, he nervously paused to take one look at me, assessed that I was not a threat and continued rummaging. Three days later I saw him outside. He was moving a little slower than usual--like I move after thanksgiving dinner. But he would make a full recovery and had once more, been fed.

So I thought to myself, OK, he doesn’t see me as a threat. A little insulting. But having read Art of War I knew I could use that to my advantage. Thank you Sun Tzu. The next day, I went up there with my pellet gun. I’m a pretty good shot, I figured I could take care of this the old fashioned way. I waited patiently for him. He appeared. Saw me, saw the pellet gun, and this time his Spidey Senses tingled determining the threat was real. He quickly ducked out of sight on seeing the pellet gun in my hand. Oh yes. The game was afoot.

My final salvation (or so I thought) came in the form of the humane solution. The large cage trap. Baited with peanut butter, it was successful. I trapped a squirrel. Carried him down the attic out to the trunk of my car and let him go across the river.

The rustling noise continued. There was more than one. In fact, I now hear at least two. The trap was set. Another was caught. Then another a few days later. Then another. In all I have trapped, released or otherwise "dispatched" over 20 of the disease ridden creatures. I have spent Saturday afternoons balanced precariously on the edge of my roof attaching sheet metal to possible entry points. I have purchased pellets that smell like coyote urine and spread them around my property. I've installed high frequency sonic generators. I have spent thousands of dollars on a new roof and new repairs only to learn that these creatures can chew through sheet metal. I have paid contractors to effect repairs with twice the material strength and still they claw their way through. They are relentless, remorseless creatures. It is indeed a war… a war of attrition. A war I am losing.

I am ceding ground to the enemy. Wave upon wave of furry quadrupeds are descending upon my fortress in numbers unknown… like an army of mutant bushy-tailed drones, I throw myself into the fray knowing that in the end it’s them or me.