Beady Eyed Bob -- Chapter One

Beady-eyed Bob
Chapter One

I did not choose this conflict, nor did he. But conflict it is, and only one of us can win. Perhaps he is simply following his nature, for it is said that nature is red of tooth and claw, and only the fittest survive. I wish him no harm, but his aggression knows no bounds.

Nature gave him the physical advantage. He is quick and agile and much younger than I. If he chose a direct attack, I would be forced to turn and run. But there is nothing direct about him—he is sneaky, and he will not make his move until I am distracted. To win, I must stay focused, and I’ve got the advantage of brains. I estimate his brain must be the size of a walnut, confined beneath his dingy brown sloping forehead, just behind those beady-eyes that gleam with malice. I call him Beady-eyed Bob.

As I said, I wish him no harm. To the contrary, I wish him true happiness and a long life. But I am not sure what would make him happy. Nothing that I do seems to be enough. He always wants more. He wants it all, and that is the source of the problem. Nuts!

Did I mention that Bob is a squirrel? Perhaps I did anthropomorphize a little too much, but he is a worth adversary. Bob is a fox squirrel, an introduced species from the Eastern United States. That makes him an outlaw as far as the Audubon Society is concerned. They say humans should not feed them and if one is injured they will not accept this invasive species for treatment. But aren’t we all invaders from the East?

Anyway, it’s not up to me. As I say, I did not choose this battle. Bonnie did. Well, that’s not fair either. She did not choose the battle; rather she simply set the stage for conflict. “Oh, they are sooooo cute!” my sweet wife says.
So we buy nuts. Lots of nuts. It started with peanuts, then hazelnuts, walnuts, sunflower seeds, and now she even gives them almonds. We drive out into the countryside once each year to visit a commercial dryer for hazelnuts. We get a 50 kilogram sack. And every time we go to Costco, we buy five pound bags of unsalted peanuts. Never mind that humans won’t eat them anymore, for fear of salmonella. And at the feed store, we buy sunflower seeds, “For a special treat, they need some variety, you know.”

But it is never enough. Like I said, Bob wants it all.

His lifestyle is in subtle contrast to his mate, a gentle sweet girl we call Hazel. Bonnie gave her that name because of her preference for the hazelnuts. Hazel comes to the glass patio door on the south side of the living room, sits up on her hind legs and peers into the room. When she sees one of us, she cups a front paw over her heart, and wags her tail. She will gently take a nut from my hand. “She’s soooo cute!” Bonnie coos.

Beady-eyed Bob, on the other hand, tends to come to the glass door on the north patio. He does not sit up and beg like Hazel. If he sits up at all, he doubles both of his paws like fists, looking more like a kangaroo ready for a boxing match. And he tilts his head down to the right, glaring at us with Os sinister. When I open the door to toss a nut, he runs up the maple tree, spins and gives the evil eye. After the door is shut, he scurries down for the treat.

The problem with Bob is the handouts are never enough. No, he has to raid the bird feeders, and that is the true source or our conflict.

As I write this story, it is early March. Today is gray and wet, and only the moss and ferns are happy. Nevertheless there are signs of life. Purple and white crocuses struggle to hold their heads above puddles and the Christmas poinsettia is rejuvenating on the patio table. A few pink camellias are unfurling. And the bird-feeders are swarmed with dozens of finches, bush tits and other perching birds. We feed all year round, but the last few days have brought larger crowds.

Controlling the crowds and keeping everybody fat and full is a challenge. We use hanging tube feeders with small perches to separate the small songbirds from the aggressive jays and bigger birds. They hang in a row sheltered at the edge of the main patio, along with a humming bird feeder that has attracted a pair of Anna’s.

But the real challenge is separating ground-feeding birds from the jays and the squirrels. If we put feed on the ground, the squirrels just munch all day and the possums munch by night.

So the solution seemed to be a hanging platform feeder. These feeders are like a flat box with wood sides and a screen mesh bottom. They have wires rising from the four corners and meeting in a loop for hanging, like a flower basket. To keep the seed dry, I decided to hang the feeder under the eave on the north patio. I knew this was Beady-eyed Bobs territory, but I figured he couldn’t get at it seven feet off the ground.

To be continued--