Armistice Day

I sometimes go to war with squirrels. Not that it's something I'm proud of, but this conflict necessarily arises when you own an old house with flimsy soffets. I believe I finally cured the problem this summer after several weeks of high-ladder carpentry. As I replaced the final lengths of fascia, I kept an ever-baited live trap on the roof to lure the last defiant interloper from its insulated den in the attic rafters. What you do after the squirrel has entered its galvanized slammer is your business: I did the responsible thing by relocating my captives to a suitable suburban apartment and getting them all jobs at the Bloomington Wal-Mart.

I assumed that the squirrels in our south Minneapolis neighborhood were eastern grey squirrels (Sciurus carolinensis). But upon close inspection of their snouts and pelage, I learned that we were beset by fox squirrels (Sciurus niger). One clear behavioral difference is the way they build their nests: fox squirrels gather twigs and leaves into a crotch near the trunk of the tree; greys prefer nesting out on a limb. It's tough to distinguish on this basis when they've become squatters, however. Fox squirrels tend to be bigger (up to 3 pounds!) and longer and have reddish-orange to pale yellow bellies, while grey squirrels have mostly white bellies. Grey squirrels tend to favor areas with denser forests--parks rather than neighborhoods.

There is always a quiet period after the armistice, and then one day you notice a bold new rodent exploring your backyard. Our redoubt now theoretically impregnable, I don't see any need to breach the peace. Sure, they occasionally knock the feeder down, and they've managed to make our jack o'lantern even more horrid. But they are thorougly adapted to the urban forest, and as long as they aren't hitching a ride on my hard-earned utilities expenditures, they can have the run of the place. At least until we get a dog.