Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies (22 page)

This time of year, as the solstice approached and an arctic high pressure sat east of the mountain, spilling frigid air through the passes and the Columbia River Gorge, I didn’t begrudge any of the critters a good meal. So I dumped another two cups of oily seeds on the tray and went back to work.

Dyflyn wandered in a few moments later. I quickly saved the marketing plan for the local hair salon. The cat sat and washed her paws. I saw the cunning look in her eyes and braced myself. She jumped onto the lap desk, spilling papers, note cards, Post-its, and pens in eighteen directions. She wormed her way around, draping herself across my arms between the laptop and my elbows.

“Fine, I’ll watch the birds for a few moments and pet you. But then I’ve got to disturb your imperial highness to retrieve all that stuff on the floor.”

She huffed and settled deeper. A deep purr erupted
from her throat. My pulse calmed and matched her rhythm.

“You know that if you want fresh litter and gourmet tinned food, you are going to have to let me work.”

No comment.

“Look, you territorial tyrant, I know this is your lap and I have no right to make you share it with something so ordinary as marketing plans, bookkeeping, payroll, and taxes for fifteen small businesses, but you are going to have to move.”

Dyflyn’s attention swiveled to the sliding glass doors. A squirrel sat in the middle of the seed tray stuffing hundreds of seeds into its bulging cheeks.

All the birds had fled.

Not just any ordinary squirrel. The local pests are Douglas Squirrels (named for the legendary naturalist David Douglas). They measure about four inches in body length, not much bigger than a standard chipmunk, have a rusty belly, and brownish brindled fur.

This guy looked easily three times that size, maybe more. Much bigger than even the gray squirrels that infested the valley. But he had the coloring of our little Dougies. I’d seen ostrich feather boas less full than that plume of a tail.

“Where did you come from?” I gasped in awe. He looked up a moment, as if he’d heard my words, then returned to stuffing his mouth.

Dyflyn chirped at him, preparing to leap at the glass. She did that quite regularly, scaring the small black bears that visited the deck after dark. They’d all gone night-night for the winter and spoiled her fun.

The squirrel barked. He sounded like a Chihuahua. He was bigger than most of them.

Dyflyn backpeddled across the den in surprise.

Since I had to get up anyway, I grabbed the phone and carried the handset back to the den. Number six on my speed dial connected me with Elliot’s house.

“Ginny!” I said when Elliot’s wife picked up on the first ring. “Have you seen the super squirrel?”

“Oh, my, yes, Penny. He ate an entire ear of corn yesterday, just after dawn, before the crows landed.”

“What kind of squirrel is he?”

“I looked him up in the books, and he must be a cross between our Dougies and a California gray. Gray big gers we called them as kids,” Ginny said.

I pictured her settling into her love seat with footrests. She didn’t have much else to do other than watch the wildlife surrounding us. MS left her weak and depressed most of the time. We chatted at least once a day.

“I thought I heard rumors of a gray bigger finding its way up here last year. I’m surprised it could cross breed with the Dougies,” I mused.

“Oh, you know rodents. They’ll breed any way they can.”

The squirrel sat up on its haunches and scanned the deck. A crow had dared hop onto the railing.

I said a nasty word as I examined the engorged nipples on her swollen belly.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Ginny asked, quite concerned.

“The squirrel is female and preggers.”

“Oh, dear. I fear that one gray has started a bigger problem.” She laughed at her pun. “Should we call Fish and Wildlife?”

“I’m not sure,” I hedged. “This gal is bigger than any squirrel I’ve ever seen, even a gray bigger.”

Ginny dismissed my misgivings. “You’ve seen some of those wolf/dog hybrids. The pups can grow larger than either parent. That’s all it is.”

I only half believed her.

Visions of teenage mutant ninja something-or-others danced through my head.

“Do you remember the rumors of a toxic waste dump in the wetlands off Salmon River Road? Some kids found abandoned barrels that were leaking.”

“Oh, that was three years ago. And the barrels contained nothing more toxic than the dregs of diesel fuel. Elliot checked it out.”

But he didn’t report them to the authorities and have the dregs tested.

“Just because the barrels were
labeled
diesel doesn’t mean they
contained
diesel. The barrels are still there. Still leaking, and this squirrel is as big as a toxic waste dump mutant.”

The squirrel charged the deck railing. The crow fled in an awkward clash of wings and loud squawks. His cronies lined up on Elliot’s fence and protested mightily. Deafeningly.

If Big Mama out there could discourage the crows . . .

Big Mama went back to stuffing herself with sunflower seeds. I named her Cass.

The crows attacked the kitchen skylight. It sounded like machine guns or a jackhammer. A herd of elephants would be quieter tromping across my roof as they changed places in a unique dance.

End of work for the day. No way could I concentrate with that racket.

Time for a walk. Dyflyn had other ideas.

She watched me from the top of the recliner back with one eye open. The rest of her seemed ready to nap.
I donned the usual assortment of wool socks, boots, cap, scarf, and coat over my wool sweater and jeans.

The second I opened the front door two inches, Dyflyn scooted through.

I dove to grab her, slipped on the ice, missed the railing, and came up with a fist full of loose fur and a face full of slushy snow.

“I’m gonna get you for that, Dyflyn. You’re supposed to be an indoor cat!” I yelled after her.

She twitched her tail at me saucily.

Okay, end the walk idea. I couldn’t leave with the cat out. We have coyotes who eat cats. Though I pity the coyote who might tangle with Dyflyn. So, I dug out the last set of outdoor lights and strung them around a rhododendron conveniently near the house and the multioutlet strip.

I was standing in the middle of the street trying to decide if the extra layer of white was overkill to the display when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a distressed cat with super squirrel on her tail.

Dyflyn dashed up the western red cedar at the center of the yard. Great. Now I’d have to get the extension ladder out and try to persuade her down.

The squirrel raced up the tree in pursuit.

I bit my lip in trepidation. The cat and the squirrel were almost the same size. Which one would I end up transporting to the vet?

Three seconds later, the squirrel headed back down the tree with Dyflyn hot on her tail. They ran around the base of the tree, up the rhodie, made a jump to the carport roof, reversed, leaped over to the cedar, clung for several precarious moments while I watched with my heart in my throat, then continued the game up and down and around, over, under, around again. They
threaded through the deck railing posts like a dog agility course. They climbed and scooted, blurs of liquid fur.

An audience of neighbors gathered in the street. We cheered on the competitors in this strange contest and commented on the bizarre parentage of the squirrel.

Eventually they paused in heart-racing truce, each perched on a different granite boulder. They stared at each other for several long moments.

I crept over to Dyflyn, hoping to catch her while she rested. I’d get scratched. That was better than losing her to a rabid squirrel bite.

I was almost upon her when she sat up, ears cocked in alarm.

I stopped short, afraid she’d spotted me and prepared to run again. But all of her attention was on the squirrel. Cass ended the staring contest, turned, and hopped to the next boulder down in the terracing. This rock had a mesh of multicolored lights spread across it. Idly, she began chewing the twisted green wires.

Dyflyn chattered and yowled. Even she knew better than to chew light cords, especially when the lights were lit.

“No! Get away.” I started toward the squirrel, waving my arms.

Cass began to twitch. Blue energy arced and crackled along her fur.

I dove for the power strip, slamming the off switch with my fist.

Too late. The super squirrel gave one final convulsion, legs stiff, brindled fur standing on end, smoke leaking out of the engorged teats, and keeled over. She landed in a soft nest of orange cedar tailings, only a shade darker than her tummy.

We stood there in stunned silence. My heart stuttered for a beat or six.

Linda, the neighbor across the street, ran for her house crying.

“It’s a goner and good riddance,” Elliot grumbled. “Worse than the crows, eating more’n its fair share of corn.” He turned and stomped through his back door.

We didn’t have a crow problem until he started putting out the corn.

The party broke up, and I was left alone with my cat to catch. And a dead squirrel.

I sighed to disguise the quivering of my chin.

Dyflyn ceased chattering and stared at the dead animal. She sat immobile. Unbelieving?

I grabbed the chance and scooped her up in my arms. She twisted wildly. I clung tighter, afraid she’d dash off again. We compromised with her head on my shoulder, staring back at the squirrel.

The soft flutter of her heart near my ear reassured me that she lived. Her silky fur comforted me.

Once inside, I threw Dyflyn onto my bed and closed the door. With her safe inside, I scrounged around the spare bedroom closet and found an empty shoe box I’d been meaning to recycle and hadn’t gotten around to yet.

The ground was frozen. Not a good time to try digging a grave. I should have just carted the carcass off into the woods and left it for the crows. Strangely, they kept their distance as I used a shovel to deposit the dead squirrel into the box. Then I clapped the lid on it and stuffed it into the shed. Somehow in the last hour I’d developed an odd bond with Cass. She deserved better than to be left as carrion for those nasty crows.

“Who said life in the mountains would be quiet so I
could get more work done?” I shook my head as I settled with the laptop in front of the gas-log fire. Dyflyn liked stretching out in front of the heat. I think I turned it on to soothe her after her adventure more than to warm my icy feet.

I opened a spreadsheet and began plugging in numbers.

Dyflyn prowled around the love seat, under the foot-rest, across the hearth, under the Christmas tree. She banged her head against a bell on the lower branches and jumped backward four feet. She gave me the “I meant to do that,” look and levitated to the windowsill. And there she sat for over an hour staring out at the strangely quiet winter afternoon.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Dyflyn was mourning a dear friend. She’d only known Cass for ten minutes.

I felt a bit mournful myself.

A snow flurry swirled, blocking our view of the street. Or were those tears in my eyes?

In my neck of the woods we say, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute. If you don’t like the forecast, change the channel.”

A warm south wind blew up about midnight bringing bucket loads of rain. At some point I heard the shed door bang open. Not unusual with gusts this strong, so I went back to sleep with a promise to get the local handyman to realign the door. Like I’d been promising myself for the past three years.

Dyflyn woke up at the noise and began prowling again, peering out the window and chittering softly to herself.

The freezing level shot up to pass level. By morning the last of the snow had melted. The ground thawed enough that I figured I could give Cass a decent burial after breakfast.

“I don’t need your help,Dyflyn,”I told her.She crouched by the door while I donned my usual layers of outdoor gear. So intent was she on getting out, she completely ignored the crows trying to drill holes in the skylight.

“Time for a preemptive strike,” I said as I grabbed her and tossed her into the bedroom. Just barely, I managed to close that door before she scooted out again. She pawed at the frame and dug under the door, mewing pitifully.

“Sorry,” I lied as I exited the house. When I peeked over my shoulder I saw her sitting in the bedroom window glaring daggers at me. I wondered if she’d accept the bribe of a can of gourmet cat food.

Probably not.

The shed door swung back and forth in the remains of the wind. I grabbed the shovel first, then looked down at the spot where I’d stashed the shoe box coffin.

The lid lay in tatters beside the box. The box was empty.

My heart sank. Some beast, probably a coyote, had taken advantage of the loose door and seized Cass’s dead body.

I sighed as I replaced the shovel and dumped the box in the garbage can. Somewhere deep inside me, I said a small prayer for the squirrel. She deserved better. But this was nature’s way. I should just let it go.

Sadness made my steps heavy and slow as I retreated indoors and went about my morning chores.

I hung the bird feeder and replenished the seeds in the screen tray before settling in for a morning of work in the office. The phone rang.

Great, another excuse to put off actually working.

“I thought the squirrel died,” Ginny said without preamble.

“It did.”

“Then what is gnawing the corn cob like an old-fashioned typewriter?”

Carrying the phone, I dashed to the window that overlooked Elliot’s parade of feeding stations. At the end closest to my bedroom, he’d stuck a corn cob on a spike in the middle of a small ledge. Sure enough, a huge squirrel the size of a small dog, with the rusty coloring of a much smaller cousin, methodically worked her way up and down the cob, removing the kernels one by one, row by row.