Thrilled to have this piece run in the FT. All my favorite ones have my dad in them. Beautifully drawn and colored cartoon by Six Chix's Isabella Bannerman.
Squirrel King: Birdseed, Mayhem and Madness
Lions and tigers and squirrels, oh my.
While watching an episode of Netflix’s popular “Tiger King,” my wife casually mentioned that I am the Squirrel King. It’s an identity I embrace, but unlike Joe Exotic, I do not intend to become polygamous, at least not right away. Also, I’m guessing the neighbors might disapprove if I start blowing up gas canisters, even with advance warning.
There is this similarity: many furry mammals depend on me for their happiness. There is a family history to this. My father also used to provide for the squirrels, in his case unwillingly, because until recently, homo sapiens were incapable of outsmarting squirrels. “Squirrel-proof” feeders were joked about at squirrel gatherings, as hilarious, ineffective attempts by humans to favor avian species over them. The feeders not only sustained them with food, but with a sense of superiority to us.
To give the chickadees and cardinals any chance at all, Dad would trap the squirrels and release them at a driving range several miles away. Some of the larger squirrels may have hit a few buckets of balls before beating a well-worn path back to our yard.
Unlike Dad, I have discovered a truly squirrel-proof feeder, no doubt the result of some NASA-developed technology repurposed for sunflower-seed and cracked-corn protection. It’s an invention on par with man’s greatest achievements, breakthroughs like spray cheese or dry shampoo. Squirrels give it the old forest try, and soon give up, discovering that it’s easier for them to eat the seed on the ground that’s been spilled by the birds. I spread a little more of it beneath the feeder, too, resulting in the healthiest, plumpest population of squirrels in the tri-state area.
I imagine that to the birds and squirrels and chipmunks, I am like the horned god Pan in The Wind in the Willows, the beloved Friend and Helper of the woodland creatures. But it’s more likely I am considered the unreliable moron who hasn’t refilled the feeder yet.
To do that, I keep a plastic container holding 40 pounds of seed out on the deck. One day I forgot to put the lid back on, and when I returned 15 minutes later, a squirrel was sitting inside it with a dazed expression. It may have been the most amazing moment of its life, like you or me falling in a vat of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. Its grandchildren have heard the story a million times:
Grandpa: “Why, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Quantities of sunflower seed beyond the dreams of avarice.”
Grandchild: “Did you go and get Grandma?”
Grandpa: “I wanted to.”
My dad’s own squirrel-proofing activities came to an end when his trap captured not another squirrel, but a skunk. As long as the skunk could not lift its tail, Dad was assured, it could not spray him. The skunk had not heard this, however, and Dad got hit. You can just imagine the delight of the squirrels watching from the trees, some of them who no doubt had done time in the trap themselves. Their little paws must have been slapping their knees, if they have knees.
My rapprochement with the greater squirrel community has helped heal this rift between the Nolan family and the family Sciuridae. I may be their King, but I rule with a sense of noblesse oblige, extending these lovely creatures a helping hand in an uncertain world. There’s nothing exotic about it, but I hope my reign will be remembered fondly among my subjects.