Instead of me pleading for forgiveness for my lack of writing, let’s both agree that I’m doing a poor job at keeping up with this blog, and get on with our lives. Agreed? Good.
Now that we’ve got that out of the way, it’s story time. Please gather around, find a spot on the carpet, and get comfortable. Today’s story is going to be a tale of man versus beast. But before we get too far into that, there are a few things you ought to know going into today’s story time session.
One month ago, I was on top of the world. I had just married the love of my life, and we were beginning on our journey of wedded bliss. One of the byproducts of this marriage came in the form of wedding cake. During the planning of our wedding, the cake was one decision that was made rather quickly, and with what appeared to be a great deal of haste. My lovely fiance at the time assured me that the cake was not a matter of concern, that it was incredibly delicious, and there was no chance of me not liking it. So, as it stood, we were going to order our wedding cake not from a bakery, but from a lady who bakes them out of her own kitchen … without me ever having tasted it.
Instead of one big ass cake, we ordered a bunch of sheet cakes in different flavors with different frostings; it was really a cake lover’s dream, and an experience I looked forward to, being a cake lover myself. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I was constantly reminded by my soon-to-be in-laws and my soon-to-be wife that the cake being made for us was going to be delicious beyond words, and that they could hardly stand the wait.
Then the day came, and I finally got to taste a piece of that cake. And let me tell you this. It was the BEST freakin’ cake I have EVER put in my mouth in my entire life. I don’t know how to describe it. It was the softest, most moist, most delicious cake ever. The perfect cake-to-frosting ratio, a frosting that was decadent without being too sweet, and an overall taste that always left me wanting more. The. Perfect. Cake.
Well, after the dust had settled, we realized we had a BUNCH of cake left from the reception. We fed it to people as they stopped by to visit the weekend after the wedding, we gave it away in mass quantities to family and friends, but most of all, it was my go-to snack. What more can I say, other than it is possibly the best dessert I’ve ever tasted, and I was pounding down cake like it was going out of style.
Anyway, I told you that story so that I may tell you this one …
We had so much cake leftover, and so much food in the house from the rehearsal and the wedding, we had to keep the cake in the screened porch just off the back of the house. We covered it in plastic wrap and foil, and whenever we wanted a snack, we just grabbed a piece from the porch.
Then, one day, as I was sitting at work (probably dreaming of the very minute I would get home so I could have a piece of yellow cake with chocolate frosting), I got a text from my lovely wife. We had been infiltrated. Squirrels had gotten into the screened porch, and eaten most of the remaining leftover cake.
So, let’s recap. Best cake ever … cake SO good, that the squirrels came from out of the woods, chewed their way through a metal screen, hopped up onto a table, ripped off the aluminum foil, and ate it.
I was devastated. I put the fam 0n notice, stating that I would not rest until I had gotten my vengeance for the cake. I was given the green light to take out any squirrels as I saw fit. And so it began. I started watching out the back window, waiting for squirrels to come around (they were always sniffing around the bird feeders). I laid awake in bed at night, haunted by visions of squirrels frolicking around the woods with frosting on their faces. When they did come around, I would grab the pellet gun, and sneak outside to try to gun those bastards down. (By the way, you’ve gotta love living outside of town for this reason alone. There I was darting and dashing through the back yard like I was in a James Bond movie, open firing on any and all vermin in the vicinity, and no one else probably even knew about it).
As time went by, I found myself struggling to notch a kill with the pellet gun. I have absolutely no hunting in my background, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve shot a gun prior to this whole adventure. There was one occasion where I actually hit a squirrel with the pellet gun, but it only stunned him, and he was able to run into the woods. I reached an easy conclusion: I needed more fire power. It became clear that I was more overmatched than I had anticipated. Soon, my new weapon of choice was bestowed upon me. It was a beautiful .22 long rifle. Again, I was given the green light to fire away, and with my new artillery, and a newly instilled vote of confidence, I felt like I would finally bring an end to the squirrel reign that had terrorized countless birds, and of course, my wedding cake.
However, the kills did not come any easier with my new weapon. I was scaring the everloving crap out of everything living within 200 yards, but I still couldn’t get the aiming down. Then one afternoon, I had a bit of a revelation, and I figured out what I was doing wrong when I was aiming. It was like a light went off. After that, I did a little target practice, and I probably could have shot a flea off a dog’s back from half a mile. Okay, maybe not, but I was on the money.
The next day, during my recon sweeps of the back yard, I spotted a menace. I ran to grab the gun, and darted outside. I snuck oh-so quietly around some trees, and as the squirrel in question stood there, I slowly raised my barrel. A shot rang out, but I had missed high. The squirrel, clearly onto the fact that I was trying to kill him, made a dash for a nearby tree. I stayed focused, and slowly followed his path with my sights. I pulled the trigger, and time stood still for one brief second. The squirrel, who had climbed up a few feet onto the trunk of a tree, stopped still in his tracks, and slowly slid down the tree and landed in a lump of 100% pure deadness. I walked about 20 feet closer, and shot it again, just to ensure the job was done.
For a second, I reveled in a job well done. I had begun to tip the scales in favor of the humans again. No longer would squirrels meander about without the possibility of death looming over them. But it was about this time when I looked into the back window, and saw my wife. She was standing there with the saddest face I’ve maybe ever seen. I quickly went inside, and asked her what was wrong, to which she replied by asking me if it was dead. I assured her it was. Then she said things I hadn’t expected to hear. Things like, “But what about his little squirrel family? ” and “He was just eating his lunch,” and the one that crushed me, “What did he ever do to you?” She wasn’t upset, just sad that a life had been taken, albeit a disgusting rodent life. Nevertheless, I felt awful. I was suddenly a heartless barbarian who let the thought of revenge plague him for so long, it moved him to kill.
Shortly after consoling my wife, I returned to the scene of the killing to clean up the evidence, so to speak. Armed with a shovel, I made my way back toward the tree. When I arrived upon the dead squirrel, I couldn’t help but notice the amazing amount of blood on the trunk of the tree. I mean, seriously, who knew squirrels had so much blood. Then, I looked down at my kill, and I saw where I had hit him. RIGHT IN THE FACE. I had literally shot the damn squirrel’s nose off, and about 1/4 of his face was missing. Seeing that, coupled with the things Wifey had said to me, well, that was when I checked out. I couldn’t handle it, and I got completely grossed out/disturbed that I had killed something, so I bolted. Thank God my mother in law isn’t as much of a pansy as I am, because had she not thrown it into the woods, I probably would have left that squirrel there for years.
Ever since then, I’ve done some soul searching (not really) and decided that what I did was probably the right thing to do. A squirrel is a menace, and despite the fact that I had shot and missed numerous times, they continued to come back to the yard in search of food. Since the kill, I have seen only one squirrel in over a week, and he only dared to hang around for a minute or two. Let’s face it, it was probably only a matter of time before I would have shot myself in the foot, so the sooner the shooting could end, the better.
I just wonder if I’ll have it in me to kill again if the times call for it. Let’s make one thing clear, if it’s a matter of a squirrel’s life, and that cake, we had better start digging a squirrel cemetery, because I’m choosing the cake every single time.
One Love,
10
The Power of 10 
