In 2005, a squirrel nearly killed me

It was February of 2005, my wife and I had just bought our home a short time earlier, and we were faced with quite the domestic disturbance. BONUS: Note the fact I used the term “phone book” without any irony. Oh, simpler times ...

Ah... Sunday nights. A time to relax, unwind, and chase a baby squirrel around the house with a fish net and Styrofoam cooler.

First we thought it was a mouse that ran across our living room floor, which would have been bad enough. Then we thought it was a rat -- a rat! --as we both spotted its longish tail. Then Kelly looked behind the TV, where the thing had sequestered itself, and saw it was a tiny baby squirrel.

“He’s sooooooo cute,” she said. “I’ll get the rubber gloves,” I said, proceeding to outfit my wife in yellow kitchen gloves covered with fleece winter gloves. Can’t be too careful with the varmints, I supposed.

As you may be figuring by now, the plan was for Kelly -- the cooler and calmer of the two humans

-- to catch the squirrel with her hands.

Clearly, we’re novices at squirrel-catching, as after a few misguided attempts at capture, the critter escaped to the dining room and decided he’d rather take his chances inside a floorheating vent. This displeased Kelly, as she was now worried her little friend would perish in the maze of vents. This also displeased me, as I figured a hot, dead squirrel would not emit the most pleasant of smells.

So Kelly ripped the grate off the vent and stuck her head in.

“I see him,” she said. “He’s all the way where you’re standing.” I was 20 feet away.

She then had a brainstorm, sending me to the basement with a broom in order to knock-knockknock on the underside of the vent in hopes of scaring the little monster out.

I agreed, but not before going to the garage to grab a tightly webbed fish net.

“Use this,” I said, handing it to her.

I then went to the basement and knock-knock-knocked.

The idea worked, as the spooked squirrel made a beeline for the vent opening. Unfortunately, Kelly’s head was still inside.

“It was like a movie,” my dazed wife later said.

Predictably, the squirrel averted Kelly’s head, hands, and net and went to the last downstairs haven, the kitchen, where he promptly positioned himself behind the oven.

I dragged the machine away from the wall, looked behind it, and came eye-to-eye with the beast, as he somehow wormed his way into the top part, where the clock and things are.

“Aaaaargh,” I said in legitimate terror, leaping backward and nearly concussing myself on the refrigerator.

The squirrel, for his part, remained mute, though he did take this opportunity to wedge himself between the oven and the wall.

At Kelly’s command, I further dragged the oven out (possibly endangering us via a gas explosion of some sort), and together we took a wire coat hanger and fashioned a poking stick.

But before we went a-poking, we covered every heating grate with assorted rugs, phone books, and pillows.

Then we poked. Indeed, the squirrel jumped out and left the kitchen. Back to the dining room, where we chased, and then back to the living room, behind the TV.

Being the seasoned vets we now were when it came to squirrel-catching, we set ourselves up.

Broom to push out. Top half of Styrofoam cooler to prevent a break the other way. Net at the ready. And... he’s caught! Down goes squirrel! Down goes squirrel!

I took the cooler and told Kelly to put him in it.

Not so fast.

Kelly had to make sure her friend was going to be comfortable in his new surroundings, so she sent me into the kitchen to get water for the squirrel. And baby carrots. And paper towels, “in case he wants to make a nest.” And lettuce. With peanut butter on it. I offered to fashion a day bed out of popsicle sticks and banana leaves, but Kelly demurred.

Have I mentioned we’re two hours into this adventure?

She then grabbed the squirrel within the net and put him in the cooler. About .02 seconds later, the little (bleeping) (bleep) (bleeper) jumped out and ran into the dining room.

Kelly laughed. I didn’t.

As for the squirrel? It appeared the fight was out of him. He looked to get down a vent, but they were all covered. We cornered him, Kelly netted him, and we managed to get him outside, where we once again attempted to place him in his condo of a cooler.

Predictably, the thing jumped out and scurried away, thus ending the Great Squirrel Hunt of ‘05.

“That was the most exciting thing ever,” Kelly said.

As for me?

I expect nightmares, intensive therapy, and a lifelong aversion to nuts.

And for the sake of sanity, I’m not even going to consider how a baby squirrel got into the house. Not even going to consider it.