Or, the mortality of a rodent.
The Mighty Hunter uses his friendly, easy going appearance to his advantage in battle. |
Every man
has that definitive moment in his life when he finds out, truly, who he
is. For Shackelton it was his trip to
the South Pole, for Krakauer it was his trip up Mount Everest. For me, that moment was last night.
It was a
calm and peaceful Friday night. We had
finished the lighting plot for the theater festival. The prop list and costumes had pretty much
been completed. Phoebe had done the
grocery shopping and baked the bread. So
I took a moment to settle in with a good book and a brandy…or at least my
version of that: beers and computer games.
Everyone else had quietly put themselves to bed and I was wrapping up
the fourth straight win on Starcraft.
That’s when it started.
By the
fireplace, there was a small rustle of newspapers. I had heard this kind of thing before, so I
didn’t immediately act. But, as I sat at
the dinning room table, and I turned to my right to see…him.
Roughly
eight inches long, covered in a brown/grey fur, with a bushy tail, and he was
staring…right…at…me. He was still. And he looked at me as if to say “Hello. Tonight we are going to find out whose house
this really is. Sure, you’ve been paying
the mortgage, but I suggest you start packing and find someplace else.”
Admittedly,
we’ve had rodents in our house before, and I have dispatched them without great
struggle. But somehow this was
different. I stared back at him as if to
say. “Go back down whatever hole you
came out of, before this get’s ugly, for you.”
And I
thought he got the message because as quickly as he was there, he was suddenly
gone. I thought nothing more of it.
Soon, I
retired to bed, turning off lights along the way. As I lay in the darkness, I could hear that
our visitor had not taken my mental advice.
In a slight miscalculation, Phoebe was still awake and could hear it as
well. I knew that this would complicate
the situation.
“What,” she
said aloud, “do you suppose that would be?”
I would
have to choose my next words very carefully, as I know she would not be happy
with the news.
I thought,
then spoke. “I’m not REALLY certain, however it might be the squirrel I saw in
the living room earlier.”
Time
passed. Then Phoebe replied “Do you
think it knows how badly I don’t want that to be the case?”
I
immediately tried to end the conversation by pointing out that the house was
full of holes in the floor where the heating pipes traveled to the basement,
and that it would be impossible to catch him.
In my heart of hearts, did I believe this? Did I not?
But pragmatism told me to just let it go.
So we lay
there a little while longer. And the
intruder continued his uncontested romp around our living space.
“You know
he’s coming in here, right?” She said.
“It’s
not…ug.”
So we got
up and looked around and could not find it.
So we went back to bed.
More noise.
Finally,
Phoebe grabbed her stuff and said “I’m sleeping upstairs with the door
closed. You’re welcome to join me if
you’d like but I’m not staying down here.”
In many
situations, masculinity allows for retreat.
In his time, I am certain that Patton exercised strategic retreat in
order to win the over-all battle. This
was not one of those times. So she went
upstairs and I decided that it was time to act.
So one by
one, I turned off all the lights downstairs, save one.
And I waited.
No
movement. I stood perfectly still and I
waited. Finally my new opponent stuck
his proverbial head up and began running around our couch. He ran across the floor and back again, then
up the curtain, and there, remained at the top of the curtain rod.
I clenched
the book in my hand, reminding myself that hesitation was a gift to the
enemy. So, I moved forward with
lightning speed and struck. Time slowed
down and sped up all at once. My weapon
struck the curtain rod, but I had to believe him too, and he somehow teleported
himself away.
I then
pulled the couch away from the wall and was met with another horror. The horror of all the snacks, toys and food
that Gabe had deposited there over the last few weeks. It was a horror that a man can’t unsee.
However, my
opponent was hiding underneath the heater, and the chase was on.
Through the
fireplace, behind furniture, into the piano room and then finally, in the
corner where I was able to strike again.
This time, the blow has direct.
The impact was strong, so much so that the squirrel actually bounced
when I hit it. And then, it teleported
again. This time, however I was
stumped. I looked and I looked but
nothing.
My opponent
was most likely wounded, stunned, perhaps dying somewhere back down in the
basement. I had made my point and it was
time to retire.
So I
climbed back into bed and attempted to go to sleep. A challenge, I admit after the heart-pounding
hunt. Much like, I’m sure, how hunters in
primitive tribal villages in Africa probably have to wind down after killing a
tiger by reading a good book, I needed time myself. So I lay there, with Phoebe still
upstairs. She could have it, I had
earned my big open bed all to myself.
I was just drifting
off when, I felt…him. He was on the
bed. He was on me. He was sitting on me, as if to say… “Remember
me, Mr. Giessler. Let me suggest that if
you’re going to kill a squirrel, you’d best be willing to finish the job.”
Quickly and
in self-defense I attempted to throw the covers over it, trapping it, maybe,
but it had anticipated this and made a run for it. I immediately turned the bedroom light back
on, and looked for it, but it was gone, and with it, my pragmatism. This was personal now. This ended tonight, with either it gone from
this house, or me.
So, lights
off again, and waiting in the piano room, I remembered the old adage that the
killer always returns to the scene of the crime. My wisdom was soon rewarded and sure enough
it returned to the curtain top.
This time
there was no hesitation, and I struck again.
Flailing away at it as I chased it around the room. This time it made noise telling me that I was
getting close. It climbed onto the
mantle of the fireplace and hid behind a photo of Tommy and Elliott believing
that I wouldn’t dare strike the image of my own beloved children. Let’s face it, this is why I fought. For them. For my family. For their freedom. But in war there are no rules and I reached
out and pressed the photo against the wall compressing the squirrel behind
it.
With
lightning reflexes it bolted again, squealing as it did so, and headed for the
piano room again. I struck again and
again, occasionally making contact.
However, suddenly it was gone again.
I waited and looked but could not find it again. I was making my way back to the bedroom, when
I had a revelation. Much like when Peter
Falk would turn around and say “Oh, and just one more question…” and you knew
that he had them, I realized that the whole reason this saga existed was
because HE COULD NOT GET INTO THE BASEMENT.
He was trapped. I was
trapped. Our fates were intertwined.
I realized
that if you want to catch a squirrel, you have to think like a squirrel. Where would I go if I wanted to retreat
through the floor, but I couldn’t actually fit. In panic, I would continually go back there,
with wishful thinking that this time, it would work, this time I would
fit. Much the same way someone would
hopelessly keep checking their pockets for missing keys.
I looked at
the layout of the room and pulled away the tinderbox right where I would
go. I moved it carefully. I moved it slowly. In the darkness, there it was. A little brown lump, protruding from the
baseboards of our forced hot-water oil heated system. It was just enough of his body for what I
needed to do.
Grasping
the book tightly, I thrust the edge down on it, with no recoil. Quickly my opponent was pinned and began
wailing. I had him. He couldn’t move. All he could do was attempt
to chew at the book and scream.
However,
now I had a new problem. He was trapped
and so was I. I could not move for fear
that he would get away, yet I had no transport for it. Just a few feet away were the fireplace
irons. I could use them, and end this
struggle in the most grizzly fashion possible.
Or…
…I would
have to do it. I would have to do the
one thing that no man in this situation would ever want or allow himself to
do. I would have to ask my wife for
help.
I called up
to her, and at first there was no response.
So I called again, as the squirrel continued to flail. I was starting to become concerned that
something would happen. My weight would
shift and he would pry himself out and then we’d be back to square one. But fortunately, she came down the stairs
soon enough and was next to me.
I told her,
she needed to get something for me to put it in. She was gone for a few minutes and came back
with a drinking cooler. The kind that
you put lemonade or ice water in which has a spigot at the bottom of it and a
screw lid at the top. I was tempted to
ask “What the hell do you expect me to do with that??? Drink him later?” In addition to its absurdity, the cooler
posed practical problems. How would we
get it from where it is, into this plastic jail cell? I couldn’t see the path to it.
So she left
and came back with a towel. This seemed
right both practically, and philosophically.
Together we had been locked in conflict, and now carrying it to the end
with my own two hands seemed more personal.
This is how it would be done.
So with my
free hand, I smothered it in the towel and then gripped with both hands and
carried it reluctantly outside into the snow.
This was a death sentence, as with what was most likely a broken leg, it
had maybe a matter of hours. I released
it in the driveway, more like threw it out there, and immediately retreated
back inside. The squirrel disappearing
into the darkness.
We both
went to bed downstairs. The next
morning, I immediately checked the driveway for a corpse, but found nothing. As I stood there, at the window, staring at
the tree line on the other side of the driveway, I could only remember the
adage: If you’re going to kill a
squirrel, you’d best be willing to finish the job.
So fantastic!!!
ReplyDeleteKaren