The squirrel is a curious creature that is one-third rat, one-half furniture duster, and four-fifths dog toy. I have always enjoyed the antics of squirrels although I have also rained curses upon them as they raided my bird feeders. As thieves, they are relentless and clever as you may surmise from the many squirrel-proof feeder designs on the market. The squirrel can climb anything you hang a feeder from. If you install some sort of baffle to deter climbing, the squirrel will leap down from above. A few fancier feeders are designed to seal shut under the squirrel’s weight. Some squirrels, though, will eventually figure out how to distribute their weight so that they can feast. Relentless.
Squirrels can be crafty, squirrels can be acrobatic, squirrels can be as monomaniacally focused as a teenaged boy on a hot date or eating a hot pocket. But squirrels are decidedly not smart. After all, while that squirrel is obsessing over how to score a big bird-feeder bonanza, it could be gathering acorns and whatnot aplenty.
When I worked at a small university in the Baltimore suburbs, my office was in a modest building on the edge of a woodsy campus that had once been a large farm. My building was a converted caretaker’s house — very quaint. We had a little open porch and garden out front and our own paved parking lot. We also had a bird feeder and would enjoy watching through a window the variety of birds that visited. The chickadees, titmice, and finches would perch and feast above while the mourning doves grazed for dropped seeds on the ground.
Of course we also had squirrels. Lots of tenacious, voracious, and bodacious squirrels. Consequently, we devised and purchased many contraptions for thwarting their feeder heists, which would be successful until the squirrels happened upon a workaround. We eventually gave in and bought a stupidly expensive feeder that automatically sealed its little seed portals when it sensed a squirrel’s weight. Each spring a new generation of squirrels would begin its round of attempts on that formidable feeder, and almost every year they succeeded.
One year, though, for whatever reason, the local squirrel colony just could not figure out how to defeat our squirrel-resistant feeder despite their every desperate caper. They dove at it, jumped at it, and chewed on it. They even attempted to dismantle it, removing hardware that we had to replace, all with no success.
One precocious squirrel, though, became obsessed with cracking the feeder in his own unique and indirect way. It started with him scaling the screen of the window in our common room and clawing and chewing the upper edge of the lower window sash. There was no screen at the top, just a storm window, so he could climb no further. (And, yes, he was a he.) After a week or so of this climbing and chewing, he had done some visible but minor damage to the top frame of the lower window sash and now had a better grip to rehearse his next maneuver.
Over several weeks, he managed to grasp that edge tightly enough to flip himself upside down and slam his body into the acrylic pane of the upper storm window. The pane served as a sort of vertical trampoline that would launch him — have you guessed it? — in the direction of the feeder! You would be working away in your office and hear “Boom!” It was our acrobatic rodent and his outlandish Cirque du Squirreleil act. If you were lucky enough to witness his stunt, you would see him crash always short of the feeder that was just five feet away.
Boom! Boom!
Whoosh!
Splat!
It had to hurt. You never knew when he might try, but he would only make one or two attempts a day before returning to the good life of gathering the nuts that had fallen from the numerous giant oak and walnut trees that surrounded us.
What did he intend to do if ever reached his destination, though? The feeder would seal the instant he was on it, so maybe he figured if he flew in, the feeder would think he was just another bird and grant him access.
As it turns out, I happened to witness his final attempt.
I was working upstairs in my office late after everyone else had gone home when I heard, “Boom! Boom!” I knew it was either Eval Squirreval at it again or yet another timid student who had overlooked the eye-level sign that said, “please just come in. No need to knock.” I ran down the stairs hoping for the former.
It was!
I arrived just in time to bear witness to his daredevil finale. Never before had he gripped the upper edge so resolutely. Never before had he pounded his tiny body so many times against the storm window. “Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!” I saw the acrylic pane undulating with kinetic energy and wondered how much it could take.
“BOOM!” Rocket squirrel exploded into the air.
Now, you may have enjoyed videos of flying squirrels gliding with gentle grace to the ground. You have certainly observed squirrels leap nimbly from tree branch to tree branch or bolt athletically from rooftop to rooftop. I doubt though you have ever witnessed anything like the final launch of Rocket Squirrel.
He soared in a not-so-elegant arc — limbs flailing uselessly — past the feeder, over the garden, and several feet into the paved parking lot. All told, I would estimate that Rocket Squirrel’s uncontrolled flight covered at least twelve feet. Astonishing.
At the end of his journey, he slammed upside down into the asphalt and lay there stunned. The darkest thoughts filled my mind in those seconds before he suddenly righted himself, shuddered his body, and shook his head. He glanced around as if to assure himself that no other squirrels had witnessed his misadventure and then bolted toward the nearest tree. I imagine he had thought this was going to be his moment of greatest glory, but it was in fact his bitterest disappointment.
Rocket Squirrel retired that window-banging routine on the spot. We never knew why. Maybe his critter brain now associated the stunt with pain, lots of pain. Or, maybe he actually had the sense to know he was defeated. Just as likely — rattled as he was by his uncontrolled landing — he became easy pickings for one of the resident red foxes or patrolling hawks.
Whatever the case, given the passage of time, his reckless ways, and the possibility that he suffered some damage upon landing, I cannot imagine that Rocket Squirrel is still with us. One fact remains, though. That year, our squirrel-proof feeder remained undefeated.
Moral 1: Don’t confuse persistence, even clever and effective persistence, with intelligence.
Moral 2: It is relatively easy to be clever and even inventive when stealing, breaking, and otherwise causing mischief. Try creating. That takes real intelligence.
Moral 3: Even a stupid squirrel has sense enough to quit.
How can you sort persistent effort from effective productivity? How can you continue to build toward a goal in a world that rewards activity for activity’s sake?
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