Squirrels

The temperature seems to have finally dropped in North Carolina, and fall is upon us. The sun goes down a little earlier. I smelled leaves burning just the other day. And of course, there’s the sound of fall: frantic, metallic scratching behind the kitchen cabinets.

The hood over my stove sucks up air through a tube about a foot in diameter that runs behind my kitchen cabinets for six feet or so before reaching a vent near my front door. Occasionally, a squirrel would climb the bush under my kitchen window, jump to the windowsill, and scale up to the vent. It would get in, run around a bit, and, after discovering no nuts, leave.

I’d bang on my cabinets and on the hood of my stove to encourage it to go. I had a neighborhood friend growing up who got a squirrel stuck in his chimney once. I used to go over to his place and play Mortal Kombat. But then the stuck squirrel died. I remember the smell stuck around forever. We spent a lot more of our time outside after that. I did not want any dead squirrels over my stove.

My method of banging on the wall every week or so worked. Every now and then, a squirrel would find the vent, I’d bang on the wall, it would jump out and learn its lesson, and I’d be safe from one more squirrel. But then it turned out that the visits weren’t coming from multiple squirrels. They were coming from one squirrel. One persistent, soon-to-be mother squirrel.

When I heard the familiar scratching inside the vent about a month ago, I banged on the wall, and I saw the squirrel jump out. But then the scratching continued. For a week. I would bang on the wall, a squirrel would jump out, and the scratching wouldn’t cease. Until it finally did. I banged on the wall, and the scratching stopped. Then my roommate came in the front door and asked, “Did you know there are three baby squirrels poking their heads out of the vent outside?”

I went outside, and there they were. Peering at me. I took a step closer, and they ducked their heads back inside in unison. If they weren’t so annoying, they would have been cute. I called my landlord to take care of the squirrels. He came over, looked at the baby squirrels, and something to the effect of, “Huh…” He would come back in a week to take care of it.

The scratching continued. My roommate and I talked about our family of squirrels. My landlord came back with a squirrel trap one afternoon. Of course, he had nowhere to put it, so he just kind of looked at the squirrels for a couple hours, concluded, “We’ll just have to wait for them to leave,” and then drove off to his squirrel-free home. To his credit, he left a wooden board as a sort of gangway from my windowsill to the vent. I think it was meant to make it easier for the babies to leave, but it also made it easier for the mother to come back.

I thought about the squirrel nest over my stovetop. I thought about the squirrel droppings over my food. I told my landlord that I was going to hire someone to take care of the problem and reduce the cost from my rent check since the nest posed both a fire and a health hazard. He agreed.

And the next day, Tim came to my rescue. Tim wore jean shorts and smelled of tobacco. Tattoos came out from under his shirt sleeves. He had a goatee that meant business. I welcomed him into my home, and he came bearing the tools of his trade. Namely: a shop vac.

“What I’m going to do here,” he explained, “is open up the vent over your stove and vacuum everything out.” I smiled. “You see,” he continued, “the noise is going to scare ol’ Mama Squirrel out, and the baby squirrels too if they can make it.” I started wondering what would happen to the baby squirrels if they couldn’t make it. Right on cue, Tim said, “If the baby squirrels are too small, though, I’ll just suck them up.” My eyes widened. “Don’t worry, though, they’ll be fine. I suck them up all the time, and nothing bad ever happens to them.”

Tim posted me outside to count the squirrels as they left their nest. He turned on the shop vac. Sure enough, Mama Squirrel jumped out quick. And then a baby squirrel climbed out. And then four baby squirrels looked out of the vent, not sure what to do. I didn’t want to scare them. I also had a small desire to see them get sucked up by the shop vac. Tim turned off the shop vac and asked me how things were progressing. I told him to keep going.

The baby squirrels craned their necks out of the vent. Then one of them reached for the wooden gangplank my landlord had left, and half-tumbled, half-climbed to the ground. A few seconds later, and the others hesitantly followed. I was watching their first steps outside the nest. One scurried beneath my car. I made a point to remember that before I drove somewhere next. Were they as adorable as can be imagined? Yes. Was I glad to have them gone? Yes.

Tim finished cleaning out the nest and showed me more dried leaves and grass and hay than I could have imagined being up there. I was really glad he had come. I told him there were five baby squirrels, which apparently is a very large litter for a squirrel in the fall. Then Tim sealed off the vent with a metal grate and allayed my unspoken fears by telling me that Mama Squirrel would round up all the babies and go to another nest of hers—she probably had a few. She would probably try to get back to my vent at some point because it made a good home, but she wouldn’t get in.

Sure enough, when I was cleaning dishes that night, I looked out the window and saw Mama Squirrel with three of her babies on the windowsill. I can only assume the other two babies were nearby. Hopefully.

They haven’t been back since. There’s no more metal scratching behind my kitchen cabinets to greet me as I come downstairs in the morning or say goodnight to me as I head to bed. It’s a much more relaxing kitchen, not having to worry about squirrel droppings falling on my food—a legitimate fear, according to Tim, though, thankfully, I never got to that point. Fall is here, and now I can cook fall chilis and stews and whatever else I want without worrying about a little extra seasoning. Plus, the fan over the stove works better than I can ever remember.

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