Rural Routes, Blog Version

REWIND

(“Rural Routes”, 1983)

Squirrels scrambled through the bushes north of our house, seemingly undaunted by the ice beneath their feet. There are lots of little red ones and a couple of the larger gray variety.

Several years ago, in another house, the squirrels were a nuisance. They raced over the roof and we had evidence that some had actually been inside the house. We were overrun with them.

“They’re cute,” I said.

“They’re a menace,” The Man said.

“All right, they’re a menace,” I said and started practicing with the .22. I blew holes into tin cans until there was nothing left to aim at.

Then it was time to look for living game. I didn’t do too well at first. Shot after shot I’d waste, while the gleeful little creatures would advance closer and closer. That’s how scared they were.

Then came a fateful Sunday morning when I was in no mood for the cheerful chattering of a bushy tailed rodent outside my bedroom window.

I dragged myself out of bed, got the gun, aimed and fired.

It wasn’t a terribly good shot, but it hit its target. The squirrel hung for seconds on a branch, then began its fall earthwards. I saw it all in slow motion and the thud it made when it hit the ground echoed in the pit of my stomach.

“Those squirrels are a menace,” The Man said a day or two later.

“Yes, but aren’t they cute?” I answered.

(“Rural Routes” 1995)

I had put in several hours in the garden, trying to weed between rain showers. The last row completed, I headed towards the house and was mounting the steps when I detected movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned in time to see an adult skunk cross the driveway and go down into the ditch.

It must have considered me a threat because it raised its tail as it turned to go into the ditch. I watched as it headed east. Ten minutes later, I looked out the kitchen window and saw the same skunk sniffing out the ground beside the kids’ slide.

I knew The Man was out in the pasture moving cattle and therefore not within telephone reach. I did try to call my in-laws, but there was no answer there and by that time the skunk had wandered off into the bush north of our house.

When I told The Man about it, he decided it was time I had a refresher course in gun usage. I hadn’t used a gun for something like twelve years. The last time I held a gun, I shot that poor squirrel out of a tree. I felt so mean that I vowed never to do it again.

But there I was, aiming at the barrel we use for burning garbage, with The Man giving me instructions. After I had put a few holes in the barrel, not exactly where I was supposed to but close enough to suit The Man, the lesson was over.

“You may never see that skunk again, anyway,” The Man said.

Two days later, The Little Girl yelled from the living room, “Mom, the skunk!” It was in the garden. The Man was in the hay field – men never are around when you need them – and so it was up to me.

If this were an episode of “Little House on the Prairie”, the woman of the house would be battling a wolf or a grizzly bear, not a lowly skunk. And, of course, she would shoot it with great skill and save her family.

I did not kill the skunk, at least not immediately. I think I wounded it, but it managed to get away in the ditch. It sprayed, which means it was either hurt or badly worried.

The Dog stood quietly beside me as I raised the gun. I was afraid it would chase the skunk and with my (lack of) skill, I would shoot the family pet instead of the intruder. But The Dog seemed to want nothing to do with the skunk.

Remembering the odor coming from The Dog a few weeks ago, we suspect it learned its lesson then. I suppose it is too much to hope that the skunk, should it have survived, has learned its lesson as well.

FAST FORWARD (March 2013)

I’m not sure why I’ve focused on squirrels, skunks and guns this time around. Perhaps it is because we have watched red squirrels all winter. They come up to the deck to steal the bread crusts we have left for the birds. They jump on top of the birdfeeder, hold on with their hind feet and hang upside down in an attempt to get at the bird seed. I cannot count the number of times I have watched one do a nosedive down to the ground. They jump from one tree to another in the bush north of the house.

Or perhaps it is because K, who has discovered an interest in cooking, found a recipe for barbecue squirrel in a slow-cooker book he recently purchased. The recipe calls for three pounds of squirrel meat and we wondered how many of our local squirrels it would take to make up three pounds.  A lot, we decided.

I have never eaten squirrel, at least not knowingly, and it is not on my bucket list for the future.

I have not aimed a gun at a squirrel since 1983. I have not shot at a skunk since 1995. Furry rodents and striped mammals are safe from me these days.

They were pretty safe in the old days, too.

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