We who have retreats up north are always concerned that vermits of some kind will make their way into our units.
We always vacuum before leaving, not for dirt, (we’re not dirty) but for crumbs, things that ants might live on while we’re gone.
We’ve caged the chimney top to eliminate that entry, and our doors and windows are always checked.
However, we’ve not considered the flying squirrel.
We’ve had this retreat (actually it’s a 3-family condo building with finished basement where we can rest at the end of the day, by the fireplace, overlooking a lake) since about 1972.
All of us have specific written instructions for opening and closing, and they have been followed accurately all these years.
So, when we seven snowmobilers arrived February 7 we didn’t expect what we found. Remembrances had been left for us. There were solid indications that some calling cards had been dropped in and on cupboards.
Since all traces were in the lower level, the concern for finding the intruders was most discerning to the two who were to sleep in the basement, Carl and Rick.
Son, Jim, was first to spot squirrelly. He was watching tv, and when the inquisitive one showed up Jim chased it downstairs. The next day Carl spotted (we should have named it) it and chased it back upstairs.
Carl developed a trapping plan. Chase it into a closet and close the doors. There isn’t a closet in the building with doors close to the floor, so on to plan B:
Wait for the devil to show again.
As the seven of us sat in front of the fire, waiting for Jim’s fried potatoes to finish their two-and-a-half hour route to edibility, Mr. Squirrel came from behind a picture leaning against the wall on a wainscot shelf about four feet high.
You should have been there to see six of the seven spring into action. Leader Carl gave orders: ‘Get a broom, someone grab that ball bat, get a fish net, where’s that basket I can trap it with?? Everyone was on their feet, but me. I poured one more and sat down to enjoy the action.
There he is on the fireplace!
Look, he (we don’t know if it was a he) jumped onto the sofa! There he goes across the floor. He’s behind the refrigerator! Here he comes again! No, he’s back behind the frig!
When Mr. Squirrel made that leap from the stone fireplace to the sofa, maybe ten feet, that’s when they started putting the word ‘flying? before squirrel.
The scene was terrific. Reminded me of an old wartime remark: ‘There we were, three against a thousand — and we got all three of them.?
The guys were scooting and yelling instructions to each other. Suddenly the squirrel started across an open area and Carl was there with his trapping basket.
He slammed it down, but half the squirrel was out. That’s when quick-footed Tim Speed, our son-in-law, put his foot down.
Fearless Carl yelled, ‘Hand me a glove!? He didn’t have a glove the night before when the squirrel made a quick visit to him in his bed.
Then Carl took the animal outside and left it in the snow. Minutes later Carl was back outside checking on Mr. Squirrel. He had a guilty feeling, and had to communicate for forgiveness.
Later Carl offered toast, table scraps and comforting words to satisfy his soul and give him reason to continue living.
Such is the feeling of an amateur squirrel hunter.