Albert Einsquirrel, Rodent Extraordinaire

My last post discussed Chicken Fried Squirrel which, I am happy to report, was not on this week’s menu. At least, I don’t think it was. Chef Papa did create some concoction with julienne carrots, pineapple, Madeira and “chicken”, so maybe…urp! I’ll have to not think too hard about that one since I went back for seconds.

The reason I mention squirrel is because after I posted about the little rascals as an entree, one of those same fluffy-tailed, big-eyed rodents figured out—after nearly a decade of unsuccessful effort by others of his species, I might add—how to access our bird feeder.

Our home sports a walk-out basement, so from the rear of the house the main level appears as a second story. I mention this so you will understand that the bird feeder, which is attached to the house just outside the picture window in my kitchen, is not easily accessible to creatures other than the intended cardinals, sparrows, and chickadees. To my knowledge, a squirrel has never before managed to reach the feeder.

Hubby and I were sitting at the table admiring the birds when—thunk!—the feeder bounced and swung with wild abandon. A squirrel had managed to jump from the deck and land successfully on his target. He was, at first, as surprised to see us as we were to see him. It was obvious that his devious plan to steal sunflower seeds was limited to “jump, land, and eat”. He neglected to consider how to extricate himself. Hubby whacked a newspaper against the window and solved the problem. Albert (yes, we named him) scrammed with all the finesse of a Keystone Kop. He scrambled off the feeder, did a mid-air somersault, landed on the patio below, rolled, and jumped into the nearest tree where he rested on a branch and stared at us with evil intent.

Several days ago, Albert returned. This time, his plan was well formulated. He accessed the feeder with a long jump from the deck. He chattered at us (I don’t speak squirrel, but I believe he gave us the equivalent of a firm dressing down) nibbled at his leisure, and then jumped to the window sill, completely ignoring our close proximity. He scrambled over to the far edge and jumped, all four limbs extended as if he were flying, and landed on a tree branch, then scampered away.

Albert must have boasted to his rodent buddies, because ever since his successful acrobatics, squirrel activity on our deck and patio has increased, a happenstance that pleases my Lab-mix dogs tremendously. They do so love a good chase. Only Albert, who we recognize by his malformed ear and scrawny tail, has been savvy enough to make it to the bird feeder without mishap, though others have tried and failed. (Squirrels bounce when they land on concrete…who knew?)

Papa said if it keeps up we will eventually have enough squirrels to target for a backyard BBQ. I think he was kidding, but I scratched “chicken” off of next week’s menu just in case.

Til next time –
Lisa

What a Turkey!

Driving home with my daughter I was forced to brake to avoid plowing down a turkey vulture. Yes, I’m sure. A turkey vulture.

Have you ever seen one of these bad boys up close? With his pinkish-red head, beak stuck on belligerent, and long, narrow body he was one formidable bird. I would have closed all the car windows but I didn’t want to look like a wuss in front of my teenager.

Still, I did wonder at our reactions should he hop in through the sunroof and join us.

For the next three minutes or so we blinked at the buzzard and he blinked back. He finally grew bored waiting for us to rot into a satisfactory meal and sauntered onto a neighbor’s driveway. Then he really impressed us. He spread his wings and trotted off and up into the air. That ugly bird was transformed the minute he took flight. He was majestic. He was beautiful.

I was curious enough about this big honkin’ bird that I did some Googling. First, I learned that my beloved state of Georgia is home to the annual Buzzard Day Festival (not kidding). Furthermore, I now know that turkey vultures are 25-32 inches in length with a wingspan of up to 72 inches. They can soar upwards of 10,000 to 20,000 feet on thermal currents, and can maintain their flight for hours, often traveling as far as 200 miles a day in search of food. And get this: if threatened, they regurgitate from their bellies a putrid-smelling pile of half-digested carrion. (Every middle-school boy in America wishes he could do that.)

So now you know more than you ever thought you would about the glorious turkey vulture. I’m surprised, too. I never thought I’d blog about a creature that thinks a putrefying corpse is a gourmet meal, but I really did learn something important: As ugly as this bird is on the ground, he is a glorious sight in the air. Being in his element made all the difference in how he was perceived. I’ve thought a lot about that.

I’m still keeping my sunroof closed for a while though. Even if he doesn’t drop by in the feathery flesh, there are other things he might drop, and I don’t think that would be as impressive as his wingspan.

Til next time,
Lisa