Walter

This post was originally a part of the now defunct Somnaplegic blog.

My first kill came later in life. Arguably, it could be considered a massacre. 

I began driving immediately after turning 15. Once I had my permit, I became my parents personal chauffeur. I drove the 15 miles to my grandmothers house on a windy back highway so many times I could probably do it in my sleep even today, which would probably be weird, because the people who live there now would have no idea why a strange sleeping lady was pulling into their driveway. 

Squishing small animals with cars was just a thing that happened where I lived. There were lots of small highways cutting through rural neighborhoods and a few busy streets downtown right next to neighborhoods where people fed squirrels and raccoons. Possums [1] were the most common victims being generally stupid and nocturnal. Most folks just hoped they didn’t run over someone’s cat. A squirrel or possum here or there was just not that big a deal.

I was very proud of my kill-free driving record. I nimbly avoided a number of small mammals and marsupials through careful observation and deft handling of the various beater-cars my mechanic father secured for me over the years. That all changed Labor Day of 2000. 

My then boyfriend and I had driven back to our hometown to visit our respective families. When I got there my dog was in a bad way. The 15 year old West Highland White Terrier was dragging and wheezy and confused. By Monday morning he was breathing heavily and largely unaware of his surroundings. We took him to the emergency vet and had him put to sleep. Afterwards we buried him in the yard and and went out for pizza. I mean, what do you do? We reminisced about our good times with Mickey Magoo MacDougal Esteban the Fourth [2]. He was a dog of rare refinement and good judgement, who would march down the hallway any time I closed my bedroom door, head butt it open, whuffle in my general direction, and then return to whatever it was he had been doing. There will be no secrets in this house, young lady.

The grief hit me later in the afternoon when it was time to drive the 2 hours back to our college town. I just needed one thing, for my boyfriend to drive home. I did the lion share of the driving in the relationship, because he was a terrible driver with a baseline speed of 45 miles per hour. Sleepy neighborhood street, mixed use pedestrian and cycle way, or 4-lane freeway, it didn’t matter. He gravitated toward the sweet spot of 45 miles per hour that’s good nowhere outside of the aforementioned small rural highways. Despite his horrible road skills, I really just needed not to be driving that day.

When I pulled up to his dad’s house he was standing in the driveway with an outsized comical bandage on one finger. He had been stung by a yellow jacket (or as he called it a “meat bee”) while grilling and would not be driving. Of course he had. 

As we made our way northward, hitting just about the mid-point in a non-descript stretch of green grass surrounded by the standard evergreen carpeted mountains of Western Oregon, a flock of starlings lifted off from the center strip, veered our way and crashed directly into the windshield. No less than 4 birds slammed against the glass leaving large smears just like bugs only much bigger. More, no doubt hit the front grill. 

Starlings are an invasive species in Oregon, so there’s that.

What. The. FUCK? 

In thousands of miles of driving and riding in cars, not once had I seen a bird hit a car. That’s the whole thing with birds, they’re constantly mobbing streets and with superhero agility hopping or flying out of the way a hairsbreadth before getting creamed by a car. I mean I know it happens from time to time, a lone confused or ill bird doesn’t get out of the way, but a whole flock choosing that moment to take off and then turn right into the one bloody car on the road? I sobbed and sobbed as the windshield wipers and washer fluid did an entirely ineffective job of washing the bird guts off the windshield. The boyfriend just sat there looking really awkward for the next hour and found an excuse to go hide when we got home.

Well, I was a killer now.

I should have been a killer sooner. My childhood home had an intermittent mouse problem. They would come inside from the big field behind our house in the winter and run around inside the walls. My parents tried some traps, but favored poison. The mice liked to crawl out and drop dead in awkward places like bathrooms and entryways. I imagine many, many more little corpses inside the walls. 

One day I found a mouse on the back patio. It was not dead, but only just barely. It was lying on its side, breath heaving, foam coming out of its mouth. It was clearly in a lot of pain. I retrieved a shovel and stood over it. I knew all I had to do was one swift strike to sever the spine and it would die quickly and less painfully than what it was going through now. I tried, but I couldn’t do it. There would be no one else around for hours, so I scooped it’s wheezing little body up with the shovel and deposited it on top of a frozen pizza box in the trash, feeling awful the whole time, but unable to just squish the poor little bastard.

RIP sad little mouse.

Of all the things I still feel bad about from my youth that one is in the top 5.

Through neglect or ignorance I have been responsible for the deaths of the following pets:

Peter the Guinea Pig – Old Age/starvation [3]

Cynthia the Guinea Pig – Sun stroke [4]

Rescue Rat #2 – Neurotoxicity from cedar shavings [5]

Joe the Hermit Crab –Hypothermia/starvation

I feel most guilty about Joe the Hermit crab. When my son was about 2 years old I bought him some hermit crabs from a kiosk in the mall. They were so cute with their little painted shells and the way they scuttled around. They’re pretty easy to care for and I thought he’d get a kick out of them. One died right away for indeterminate reasons, but Joe lingered on. I had not considered that the boys room got quite cold during the winter days when everyone was out.  Cold is not great for crabs trapped in a terrarium. I also did not know that an ill or uncomfortable hermit crab might ditch its shell to bask in a tiny ray of sunlight.

Sorry Joe.

Have you ever seen a hermit crab out of its shell? OMFG. They look like an alien spider monster that is going to climb right in your ear and take over your brain a la Wraith of Kahn. If you’ve read my other posts you probably know that I’m a tad arachnaphobic. Walking into the boys room and seeing this alien spider-monster sunning itself was just too much for my twitchy phobic brain. I turned over care of the beasty to husband and son, which was, of course, a death sentence. I honestly don’t remember how or when Joe kicked the bucket, but I assume it was due to cold and starvation. I’ve blocked out pretty much everything about Joe except that image of him nude sunbathing, which is burned into my memory.

Guinea pigs usually live 4-8 years

The only animal murder I’ve committed was accidental, and I don’t feel all that bad. So, this is the point when my animal loving friends should probably tune out, because, I’m not going to come out of this one looking good.

I’ve mentioned before that we had a Pembroke Welsh Corgi named Shorty [6]. Shorty had grown up on a farm with sheep and ducks and cats. He was kind and gentle and would not hurt another creature [7]. That is, until he came to live with us and met the squirrels. 

There is a very old, very large walnut tree in my back yard. Every year it produces a massive quantity of walnuts. In 17 years of homeownership I have not eaten a single walnut off of my own tree.  This is because of the Walters. Let me tell you, squirrels are spider-level assholes.  They are territorial, aggressive, rude, and stupid. Squirrels with unfettered access to a walnut tree are The Worst. They will chew half the way through unripe nuts and throw the husks at anyone standing under the tree. One once threw a nut so hard it broke a hole through our plastic deck roof. They bury nuts everywhere, but can never remember where they buried them and so just dig random holes in your lawn and garden beds. They pee on people from the branches above. Seriously. They’re awful. I got tired of hollering, “Damn, squirrel” because the whole thing just seemed to personal, so I named them all Walter. “Screw off, Walter!” I would shout and aim the hose up at one that had just winged me with husk crumbs. 

I am an animal lover. I’m good with animals. I was going to be a vet, but I decided against it when I realized I’d probably end up in jail for punching neglectful pet owners. 

Rescue Rat #2. I didn’t know you well. Sorry about the poison bedding.

Squirrels are not animals. They are atheist Satan’s minions here on earth sent to plague us with cuteness and malice.

Shorty joined us when he was 7 years old, after I’d owned my house for just about the same amount of time. I was used to the Walters, but Shorty had never encountered a squirrel collective in possession of a walnut tree. The Walters had had the yard to themselves since the death of Matilda, a semi-stray cat who came with our house. They’d been careful not to annoy Matilda. She could climb just fine and had the scars to show she did not mind getting in a fight. But this dog could definitely NOT climb trees and was interfering with their ground game. The Walter’s were not having it.

The Walters could have carried on with business as normal. Shorty would not have bothered them, but any time he came out into the yard they would retreat from their endless buried nut hunts and sit up on the fence chittering aggressively at him. They threw nuts and twigs at him non-stop. It got so bad they would work the ordinarily sweet and laid back dog into a barking, running fit. Poor Shorty, he had no idea why the squirrels hated him so much, but they did and it got to the point that he couldn’t go into the back yard without a bevy of squirrels chittering and assaulting him like a circle of mean girls. 

That’s when I got the BB gun. 

Squirrels have pretty tough hide, but they don’t like the sting of a copper BB. These little bastards were tormenting my dog and I was going to teach them what’s what. I marched into the Wal-Mart [8] and selected the Daisy Red Ryder pneumatic pump rifled [9]. “I need to shoot some squirrels,” I told the clerk. My Carhartt wearing, good old red neck boy-from-the-sticks husband cringed and whispered, “Please stop telling people you’re going to shoot harmless tiny mammals.” You see, for all his red neck heritage, he’s a tree hugging softee who will tolerate squirrel abuse rather than stand up for woman’s best friend [10].

No, no I will not stop telling people I plan to shoot some squirrels. The Walter’s started it.

Here’s the thing about a Daisy BB rifle. You pump it up using a lever. The more pumps the stronger the shot. One pump, may not even get high enough to hit a squirrel 30 foot up in a tree. 4-5 pumps will give a nice sting, 10 pumps could certainly take out a small bird and possibly a squirrel with a good shot. More than 10 pumps will blow the valve and you’ll have a very cute, useless prop gun on your hands.

One sunny Friday I’d take off of work to do some gardening. A particularly aggressive Walter was putting up a big ruckus. The poor dog was running back and forth across the patio barking and whining as the squirrel rained nuts on his head. 

“Hey Shorty puppy, you want Mommy to get the BB-Gun! Huh, yeah? Wanna shoot some squirrels.”

Oh, yes Alpha human! Let us ping away the mean fur rodents with the poot-poot stick! 

“OK, Let’s go shoot some mean squirrels.”

I love you Alpha human! You are the best at all things!

So I got the BB-gun, pumped it up a few times and took aim. Phewt! I missed on the first shot, but the second hit the mark. The suitably angry offender moved higher up the tree, let out what must have been a stream of squirrel profanity, and continued his barrage. Shorty was running around my feet excited by the action. We were safe from the rain of nuts under the deck cover, but the squirrel doubled down on the artillery. 

Usually the Walters hide behind branches and make a break for another tree when I brought out the tiny rifle. This little bugger was not backing down. Pretty soon we were trading fire like we were hanging out in enemy foxholes at war. It’s possible, in the heat of the moment, I pumped the rifle up a little more than the usual 4-5 pumps and then landed a beautiful shot as the squirrel scurried toward another nut. PHWET!

Shorty gamboled about as I chuckled at the squirrels stream of invective.

“Ha, asshole, that’ll teach you! Get out of my tree!”

The stubborn twerp just kept climbing higher, only now I notice that he was slipping as he climbed, dragging his limp back end. 

Aw, nuts. I’d just paralyzed Walter. 

I watched him for a few minutes to see if it was a temporary condition, but no such luck.

Now the conundrum. Do I leave my victim to the mercies of the neighborhood cats. I’ve seen those cats in action. They’re mostly well-fed enough to take plenty of time with their prey. I could try to capture the squirrel and take it to a vet, but there’s no way to get 30 foot up into the tree to run down a squirrel. Even paralyzed a squirrel is a much better tree climber than I. Or, I can take him out.

I remembered the mouse. The poor wheezing mouse I left to die on a soggy Reesers Frozen Pizza box.

Well, shit.

So I pump the gun all the way to 10 and take aim. 

The whole affair was pretty sad. It takes 3 shots to knock him out of the tree, stopping between each to pump the gun up 10 times. He falls into the garden and Shorty, never a smart dog, takes a while to find him, but eventually he does. The squirrel is heaving and wheezing, but he doesn’t scream or fight. 

Great. Another mostly dead rodent.

I look at Shorty. Shorty looks at me. 

“I don’t suppose you want to finish it?” I ask Shorty. 

Alpha Human, why does the fur-monster fall? What do we do?  

I head to the shed for a shovel, but when I turn around to finish the job, I see a nubby brown tail booking it into the house and the squirrel is gone. AAAAAHHHHH! Now the Corgi is going to deposit his new squeaky plushie in the toy bin. 

I scuttle into the house, still carrying the shovel, “Shorty, drop Walter!”

He’s hovering over the toy basket. Seeing an angry human wielding a shovel, he dashes for the dog door to the side yard.

“Shorty, Bring back Walter!”

I try to cut him off with the shovel, but he’s shaped like a sausage and build for herding sheep. He deftly dodges me. Walter gently held in his mouth, he darts out the dog flap in the wall. I lie down on the floor and stick my head out the hole. “Shorty, bring back the squirrel!” He’s hunkered guiltily in the corner of the yard.

I pull my head out of the hole and head back into the back yard, sans shovel.

Around the corner, through the trailer yard, into the side or “dog poop” yard. Shorty lays down looking guilty, head on tiny corgi legs.

“Where is Walter, Shorty?”

Shorty is a terrible liar. His eyes dart over to a pile of leaves. I head down the long narrow yard toward the pile. When I get close Shorty hops up and hovers protectively over the pile. I push away the leaves and find that at some point between the toy box and my arrival at the leaf pile Walter has finally expired. 

“What are you going to do with a dead squirrel?”

Alpha Human, this is my plush fur rodent now! I will pet him and love him and call him George!

“You can’t have a dead squirrel pet.”

But it is mine, Alpha Human! I will keep it safe here in the leaf pile.

“I’m taking the bloody squirrel.”

No, Alpha Human, please it is mine!

I pick up the limp body and head back around to the main yard. I consider burying it, but we have really lousy clay soil and I suck at digging. I open the hatch on the trash can and gently place it on a soggy box of Eggo waffles. 

“Sorry Walter, you were an asshole, but I didn’t mean to kill you.”

“Hey honey,” I hear from in the house, “Why is there shovel in the living room?”

***

[1] Saying Opossum sounds very quaint where I’m from. Opossums are things from old timey children’s books. We just call them Possums.

[2] No there were not Mickey Magoo MacDougal Esteban the first through third, I just thought it sounded distinguished to have a number behind one’s name.

[3] My parents claimed that Peter was not my fault. He was fairly old for a guinea pig, but I had let him run out of food that day and then fed him iceberg lettuce, which it turns out is worse than not feeding a small mammal because it’s amounts to negative calories.

[4] My parents blamed me for this one and I vociferously protest. She was left out in the sun and died of sunstroke, it was my responsibility to move her cage to the shade every 10 minutes, but I had been shanghaied by my uncle who took me in search of Atari 2600 cartridges. How was I supposed to know he had not told them we were leaving?

[5] Don’t use cedar shavings with small mammals. They are toxic.

[6] Once again, No, I’m not the one who named him.

[7] Though he was quite turfy with stray dogs that wondered onto the farm and would chase them off.

[8] Yes, I’m a commie-pinko academic and shop at Wal-Mart. Look, I’m also a redneck and Wal-Mart is the place for your squirrel punishment B.B. gun needs.

[9] Yes, that’s the one Ralphie was so desperate to get his hands on in a Christmas Story.

[10] He calls me an “arbicidal maniac” because I rationally think that having 21 trees on a 0.1 acre city lot is a stupid number of trees to have, especially when they are pushing over the fence.

*This post was originally a part of the now defunct Somnaplegic blog.