Special to The Enterprise

Davis has two eras: ÒPre-SÓ (not the hybrid car) and ÒPost-S.Ó The Pre-Squirrel era ended about 2005 and the Post-Squirrel era could continue to eternity, given the resilient character, spiked with unbelievable audacity, of these critters.

Our squirrel attitude changed from Òhow rare, how cuteÓ (2005-07) to alarm as their population exploded exponentially. They must have rabbits as consultants.

Initially, I watched passively, confident that the diving, screeching, terrestrial scrub jays would send them packing, or that the red-tailed hawks would swoop and devour them, but it was not to be.

One windy day we watched a pair of hawks (she was obviously the Red-Tailed Girl of His Dreams) acrobatically attempt to mate atop the swaying pinnacle of my pine tree while having to also duck waves of stuka-type attacks by sorties of crows. ItÕs like having your mother-in-law drop in at the wrong time.

It was apparent that the hawks were far too occupied with their own problems to be of any help in controlling the squirrel population. The burden of de-squirreling, at least in my small garden empire, was clearly on my shoulders.

Lest you think I am without cause, let me enumerate. First, they went after the acorns on my acorn tree, angering both the jays and me, especially since I had just purchased a brand new ancient acorn grinding rock.

They can have all the hackberries they want, but stay out of my oak tree.

Then there were the three PÕs (pomegranates, persimmons and plums), all devastated in a most wasteful way. I once confronted a young squirrel, one of those know-it-all adolescents, his face stained red with plum juice.

In squirrel chatter, emphasized by arrogant tail twitching, he blatantly denied all charges. Was I then to believe this was a vampire squirrel? I felt my neck for incision marks.

DonÕt think I didnÕt consider using a soft-pellet pistol. I even looked up recipes for squirrel stew (page 412 in ÒJoy of CookingÓ). My one small victory came by using a jet of water, sending the critter down from plum tree to scorching asphalt roof. His Òow, hot, owÓ in squirrel chatter was music to my ears.

Desperately, I envisioned the Davis City Council pulling an all-nighter, not simply to pass a squirrel resolution, but to actually lure the critters in a procession led by Ruth and Sue (a rare show of unity) to the city/county border to resettle them in the proposed Wildhorse development. Alas, Õtwas just another Òpiper dream.Ó

The final blow came when I hurled a fallen green apple at the squirrel munching in the tree on a perfect fruit. With a look of disdain, he scrambled down, retrieved the thrown apple and consumed it.

My shoulders sagged in defeat. Truly has it been said: ÒWhen the enemy eats your ammo, the war is lost.Ó

Ñ David Davenport was born in the Himalayas and came to Davis in 1966. He is retired from the department of land, air and water resources at UC Davis.

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