My Man Vs. Nature

So, this weekend, we had an uninvited guest: a squirrel. He got in by pushing his way in through a loosened screen on an open window, and effectively terrorized my husband for three hours Saturday afternoon.

First of all, let me set the stage for you. I'm out shopping with Mom on Michigan Avenue. We're in Filene's Basement looking at some fantastic bargains, when my mobile rings.

Husband: (sounding panicked): There's a squirrel in the house.
Me: There's a what?
Husband: SQUIRREL! Oh GOD! ACK! He's big. Did I tell you he's big? I mean, he's REALLY BIG.
ME: What's happening?
Husband: He's jumping on our furniture. He's running over everything, and he's totally not scared of me at all. What do I do? Should I call 911? Oh my God! He's coming for me! Agggh!

Now, my husband is 6'1" and weighs 195 pounds. The squirrel was eight inches long and probably weighed four pounds. Now, let me give you a bit of history on my husband. He is a pacifist. He doesn't even like to squish bugs, and when we had a mouse problem some time back, we spent some time arguing about whose job it was to throw away the glue trap that had caught Speedy Gonzales. My husband likes to say, "Why do I have to do it just because I'm a guy? That's reverse sexism."

So standing in Filene's and not wanting to leave the Fendi scarves I've just found on sale for $14, I give my husband a "pep talk" or what he calls my "Be a Man" speech. I tell him he ought to a) close the door to contain the squirrel; b) open our patio door; c) try to shoo it out with a broom.

"Uh, yeah, right," my husband says. "I don't think you realize how big this squirrel is. It's BIG."

I hang up and suddenly start thinking that maybe my husband needs back-up. After all, there was the time he killed a tiny spider in our apartment by emptying an ENTIRE can of Raid on the bug in front of our air conditioner, so our entire apartment smelled like insecticide for a week. I have images of the squirrel wrecking havoc all over my living room and decide to go home to help.

When Mom and I arrive at my place, we find no squirrel, but we do find my husband, dressed in "squirrel fighting gear" which includes his snowboots, his leather jacket, a tennis raquet and a broom. "I've taken care of him," he says, sounding proud.

"What are you wearing?" I ask, wondering if his strategy was to convince the squirrel he was insane by wearing snowboots in August.

"I had on flip flops and shorts," he says. "You couldn't expect me to fight a squirrel wearing flip flops and shorts."

Apparently, my husband spent an hour chasing the squirrel around the house wearing everything but a catcher's mask and hockey pads. According to him, he was throwing up his arms and making all kinds of racket, shouting “Get outta here squirrel! Go away.” The squirrel, however, was entirely unfazed, just like me when he tells me I ought not to spend so much at Nordstrom's. Mr. Squirrel, apparently, literally ran circles around his legs to taunt him.

When my hubby, exhausted from his show of brute force, took a break to go looking for a phone book to call animal control, he looked up to see that the squirrel had - of its own accord - gone back out the open window, and was sitting there on the outer window sill, as he says, "mocking him." In a heroic leap, though, he threw himself into the room and slammed down the window, just as the squirrel was planning on coming "back on the offensive."

Squirrel: 0
Squirrelly Husband: 1