It was a lazy day, sunny with a gentle breeze; all in all, a beautiful day here in the Peaceable Kingdom. It was early afternoon; the wife was off at work saving the planet from rogue computer servers threatening to nuke each other. I sat my ass down for a little while, watching TV in the den and shoveling blazing hot Cheeto’s into my pie-hole when all hell broke loose. A crash sounded, glass was breaking, and the house shuddered with the impact. Being of the coppage and gruntage, I immediately armed myself with a Sig-Sauer P220 45 loaded with silver tip ammo. The house’s perimeter had been breached and I certainly wasn’t going to let a punk-ass shit-stain get any further without meeting his worst friggin’ nightmare. I slowly made my way down the hall;, checking the living room and dining room first; my body low and flattened against the wall, the Sig extended in front of me, chambered.
Sounds of breaking glass continued from the kitchen, just off to my right. I crouched lower, slowly approaching the door and doing my best to keep the wood floors from creaking underfoot. Still low, I peered around the corner and into the kitchen, ready to confront the intruder. It’s been awhile since I had to do an entry like this, and I wasn’t armed with an M-4 or protected by Kevlar. The element of surprise was mandatory. The kitchen has two doors on each side, not including this one leading into the dining room. One of those doors leads to the front door, the other to the basement; another door there leads outside to the driveway and side yard. That door is made of glass, backed by another door of wood. I had left that wood door open earlier.
I didn’t see anything in the kitchen, but I could hear movement. I slowly approached the doorway leading to the basement, checking the front door in the process. Nothing. I needed to clear the space behind the wall leading to the living room, but the basement door needed attention first; fearing an assault from that direction, it needed to be cleared. It was there, near the basement landing, that I was attacked.
My life flashed before my eyes – my childhood, my wife’s little dimply ass, it all flashed by so quickly. With blood in its eyes and talons outstretched, a monstrous fox squirrel went for my throat. That might be an exaggeration I admit, but the distance between my ankle and throat isn’t that far.
It stopped its assault and looked up at me with a sneer that suggested it was no rookie to home invasions. Once my heart started beating again and the shit solidified in my shorts, I asked Mr. Squirrel, “Just WTF do you think you’re doing?” It was a few moments before I realized that most squirrels don’t talk, but I let the question hang just in case this little bastid had learned something from Disney flicks.
Breaking out in a Hannibal Lecter grin, it spit out a shelled walnut, grabbed its rather large rodent balls with his right front paw, flipped me off with the other, bared its teeth and growled. Well, violate my ass with a 2×4 but that was enough for me and a barely audible squeak emanated from a very dark place in my colon. I certainly can’t shoot it; it could be an escapee from the wildlife rehab room, or a personal friend of the wife’s and besides, once my wife found out I’d be a dead fkr anyway. It was then that Mr. Squirrel decided this wasn’t a good time to reach into my chest cavity and rip out my still beating heart so it leapt to the window ledge, making its escape through a hole it had chewed through the screen. The little, errr…big bastid left disaster in its wake; broken planters, broken glasses in the sink and a pair of skid-marked Fruit of the Looms. “She’s gonna have my balls, I just let one of her charges escape from the house!” Wait a minute. First of all, they don’t escape, wildlife in rehab are in cages, and what the fk is a hole doing in the screen?
Well, after a frantic call to the wife, it became apparent that this was a Ninja Squirrel from outside and not a resident of the wife’s wildlife rehabilitation center. It could have been one of her covert operatives that I think she’s been training for eventual world domination. She refused further comment on the matter and directed me to her Public Information Officer.
I was a hunter for years. I’ve presided over organizations like Safari Club International and others. I’ve hunted here in the states, South America, Africa, South Africa, Australia, Great Britain, Canada and in places the tourist bureaus rarely send clients. I’ve faced Cape buffalo in Africa, brownies in Alaska (the bear kind, not the beret wearing kind) and mountain lions in California, Utah and Nevada. I’ve busted through doors in places where the inhabitants hated my guts and I’ve braved a gauntlet of IED’s and snipers.
I’m certainly not unaccustomed to facing danger from human or critter kind. I’ve been a tracker and an animal damage control guy in half a dozen states. I’ve seen the Elephant so to speak. I’ve been fortunate enough to have gained a reputation of competence that’s resulted in the opportunity to write for some well-known hunting publications. I’ve been involved with dozens of videos on the hunting and tracking of some of the most dangerous land-dwelling predators on the planet, not to mention the tagging of Mako sharks off the coast of southern California where one false move and you’re shark chum.
Today, I had my combat trained ass handed to me by a friggin 2-pound fox squirrel.
Thank God this blog is anonymous.