I never thought I’d miss the squirrels, but I do.
They may be back eventually, but for now, I think there’s a big red X on our yard and they’re all staying away. I feel sorry for them, despite all the raiding they’ve done at our bird feeders.
The reason for their desertion streaked past us as we drove in our driveway the other day. It was a cat, a dark charcoal gray, lean and mean, with the limp form of a squirrel clutched in its bloody jaws. One of our squirrels. One that we’ve fed every day, chased out of the bird feeders, allowed in the bird feeders, and laughed at for performing squirrel gymnastics.
I was outraged, but the cat took off running, firm grip on its prey. When I got to our door, I glanced at the empty feeders, still swinging. And then I saw the saddest sight: Squirrels, huddled here and there in the very top of the maple tree where they had run for safety. A couple chattered in that way they do when annoyed, and flicked their tails over and over in agitation. Most, however, sat quietly, afraid. In the branches below were the little brown birds who usually hang around all day. They were flitting and fluttering, but staying well out of reach of marauding ground prowlers.
An hour later, they were all still there, in the tree, afraid to come down. Later in the day I noticed they’d vacated the premises entirely, all of them, squirrels and birds, and things stayed empty.
I suspect that cat is feral because I doubt any well-fed house cat is going to bother tackling a squirrel. I also saw the same cat today, chasing a crow off road kill and running off with the carcass in its jaws. I suppose I should feel sorry for the cat, fending for itself in this cold and bleak winter.
But I don’t feel one bit sorry. I feel like a traitor, like an accomplice to the crime since I’m the one who put out the food–in effect, the bait–that lured the critter to our yard. And even worse, I suspect he’ll be back. If I catch him there won’t be a warm welcome.
Today the birds are back, but not the squirrels. Perhaps the ordeal will fade from their little brains in time and they’ll return, driven by the easy pickin’s in our yard–the same easy pickin’s we’ve provided for that blasted cat.
Maybe the solution is the flock of wild turkey hens that visits regularly. If I could work up a gang of attack turkeys, no critter-killing cat would trespass in our yard. Or maybe I should stake our beagle Tillie out there now and then. The cat wouldn’t stand a chance.