Where's The Love? Part 2

(Be certain to scroll down or click on Where's The Love, Part 1, for the sequential story)

That day it all occurred is sort of a blur now, but here’s how I remember it. A rare, gorgeous summer weekend in Washington. I was walking past the now dreaded balcony door when I spotted “him” through the screen door. I slowed to a crawl, time almost stood still as my stalking instincts kicked in, it seems this instinct is also deeply embedded into my genetic material. I moved very quietly toward the Tabasco Weapon located near the door. It seemed to take forever as I reached out for that sprayer but when my out stretched hand wrapped around the smooth plastic we became as one. I slowly lifted the muzzle, err, I mean sprayer, toward the screen door and at “him”. Some sixth sense made him look nervously toward the door but he didn’t bolt. However, unfortunately for him, he did turn his back on me as his nervousness increased. I aimed, I squeezed, and I just kept pumping that trigger for all I was worth.

I would say it was a Bull’s-eye, but really it was a Squirrel-Butt.
Yep.
Tabasco laced water right up the 'ole butt. I rushed the screen door, threw it back and kept pumping that noxious elixir right at him. He dashed and leapt about that little balcony for many a frantic moment until he decided his best bet was to launch himself toward the cedar and freedom, but I was not to be denied. I think I was in one of those frenzies you hear people describe. I could hear him kecking and sneezing from the cedar tree and I aimed at the sound, squeezing that lever over and over, dangling precariously from my balcony. He moved lower, out of range. Enraged and seeking redress for my consumed corms, I ran barefoot back through the apartment, whipped open the front door and was down the stairs like a shot! To this day I wonder what my neighbours must have thought I was up to – but on that fateful summer day no one interrupted. I dodged and danced at the base of that cedar tree just outside of my apartment building and drenched that hairy little sucker from below. Between the stinging butt and the watering eyes I’m certain his furry little brain wasn’t thinking clearly. He ran back up the tree, onto the balcony, through the apartment and down the stairs I had so recently transgressed to his freedom. How do I know this? Because all the way across the carpet and over the cement steps I could follow his teeny-tiny wet, orange stained foot prints right out to the parking lot.

Somewhere there lies a little squirrel on a little couch, talking to his little squirrel analyst, trying to explain away his fear of hot food; I hope his insurance doesn’t pay for the visits. He must have gossiped a bit at the squirrel gym too, because no squirrel ever set foot on my balcony again.

One ranunculus bloomed, it was pink & black and it was beautiful.

Post Script ~ I have badly butchered the very humane Jerry Baker’s natural pest-be-gone formulae. Jerry seems a kind man and in no way suggested Tabasco alone or in such strength. Please chalk it up to temporary insanity. And many thanks to Iwoowoo's Shop for the lovely amber cabochons I've so generously shared with Squirrely Nut!     (http://www.etsy.com/shop/iwoowoo)