We have seen the enemy...and they have tails...
It is apparently yet another Columbus Circle tradition, unless you resign yourself to defeat and plant only Hostas, to wage yearly war against the oh so numerous (and by numerous I mean hundreds...) of squirrels that share the neighborhood with us. The ones that mercilessly and gleefully devour anything and everything.
Pumpkins, by the dozens. Scraps from the compost. Bird nests. (Yes. Bird nests.) Bird houses. (Yes. Those, too.) Roses. Green Tomatoes. Lemons. Dahlias.
This Spring they have turned their attentions to us newcomers. And our Tulips.
So far is it not going well.
These Tulips, mind you, are not your ordinary Tulips. I bought them before we even had a house. Right after our condo sold, in the tense limbo of not knowing where we’d end up or when, our Library had a Tulip sale. They hold one every year to make money for some of their programs. Every fall they plant several different and new varieties of Tulips in an open space alongside the Library entrance. And every spring, after they bloom, the Tulips are dug up and the bulbs are sold by the dozen in labeled brown paper bags.
It seemed such a civilized thing. An early spring plant sale. At the Library. To raise money for local programs. What’s not idyllic about all of that?
Well. E, my daughter, and I showed up at a quarter to eight on a rainy late April morning. I figured fifteen minutes was plenty early to beat the “rush”. And in that I was somewhat correct. But in my quote-unquote, naive, almost sarcastic idea of rush I was wrong. Hoards of people showed up. Two long lines worth. And unlike us newbies they had done their homework. They knew what varieties of Tulips the Library was selling that year. And they knew which ones they wanted. With zealous, undeterred passion they knew. No sooner were the doors unlocked that the whole mass, bottle neck style, tried to jam through the glass doors as one. I kid you not, elbows were thrown. Shoves were executed. E, whose hand I had been holding, was bodily separated from me and literally carried away by the crush. I yelled to her as she was forced back with the flow, “Stand by the other door. Stand and wait for me by the other door...”
It was unreal. It was like those movie scenes of some bridal sample sale taking place in New York or Manhattan. Except this was Wisconsin. And these were Tulips.
As is, I think, only to be expected, not only was my resolve daunted by the sheer unforeseen madness of the whole thing, but I was severely distracted by losing hold of my daughter. I merely stood, staring, while bag after bag was snatched up, sometimes yanked away at the very last second from someone else’s far-too-slow hands, torn and ripped in the heat of it all.
When in mere minutes the dust settled and the stampeding masses had turned their attention and their oppressive presence toward the money collection tables all that was left were a few lonely bags whose labels bore a name I no longer remember and the blunt one word description ORANGE.
I collected them and my daughter, bought them and brought them home. At once I was both full of pity for their ‘passed over’ status and proud that they were the victory spoils of our brave quest. Having no place to plant them right away I buried the bulbs in two large plastic pots of potting soil, let the growth die back, packed them up into the bed of a pick up truck a month later, moved them to our new house and stored them in our basement’s root cellar all summer long.
Then, this fall I planted them. I planted them deep. In the grass. Under a layer of chicken wire. Held in place by 2x4s and rocks. This I felt would be sufficient to keep the squirrels away. Sure it looked rather red-neck. But the snow would soon cover it, right? And in the spring...? Well in the spring, when they flourished and bloomed it would all be worth it.
And it very nearly was. Until the blooms started to appear. Above the tall green leaves, they shot up. Well out of the protection of the chicken wire they grew, taller and taller. And then, out of what I can only interpret as sheer spite, the squirrels began, one by one, to snip the unopened, tight green buds clean off.
I know it is out of spite that they do this. Because they don’t eat them. Or even carry them off. No they simply leave them laying there on the grass for me to see. And mourn over.
So I did a little internet research. “Try Lysol,” I read. The squirrels smirked. “Try rags soaked in Vinegar.” The squirrels laughed. “Try Cayenne pepper.” The squirrels rubbed their hands together and really got motivated.
This morning, at dawn, all of my remaining Tulips opened. At eight I was out admiring them. At ten, I was looking through my front window, uttering a little shriek of shock, fury and heartbreak. In that short time span a third of the beautiful, full, orange flowers had been mowed down, pulled apart and littered across my yard like colorful confetti.
War, I decided. It was now war.
I prefer at this point to keep my battle plans a secret. At least until they prove effective. But they might or might not include knocking some nests out of trees, (lest you feel bad let me first say they have literal apartment complexes going on in our trees. Multiple story dwellings, too.) spraying absolutely everything with a truly gruesome garlic, egg and powered blood spray, inducing our neighbor cat, with some kitty kibble and catnip bribes, to hang out a lot in our yard and perhaps renting a falcon.
