Last winter, I enjoyed the lack of really cold air. I enjoyed watching squirrels eating acorns from the oak tree in my front yard—until I woke one morning and my truck wouldn't start. Dead. Dead. Dead. It seems the squirrels liked the space between the firewall and the engine, and they also acquired a taste for insulated copper wiring. Two-hundred fifty dollars later, my truck started again. Sorrowfully, I had blamed all of this on field mice which inspired me to write a metrical Billy Collins poem. Another year has passed and on the way to the doctor, whom I've seen too much of this year, the truck began to malfunction. It limped back home some hours later, and yesterday my buddy opened the hood to find another nest, same place, same chewed wires. We cleaned it out. I bought his lunch, which was way less expensive than $250 smackers. So, today when the fox squirrel came, I shot him in the head with my .22 caliber rifle, skint his hide, fried him for supper with french fries and drippin' gravy. I'm not sure if he was the single offender. I am on the prowl. Supper was very good.
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