Let's talk for a minute about squirrels, shall we?
Let's see, where do I start? I don't like them.
At all.
They're not cute.
They're not adorable.
They're not charming, quaint or any of those other things people think about squirrels.
They're rats who got into the "bushy tail" line instead of the "rat-tail" line.
They're harbingers of doom.
They're theives.
They're vandals.
They're aggressive.
They're noisy.
They serve no purpose I can think of. What do they do? Eat flies? No. Curb spiders? Not last I checked.
I've always kept my distance. I've never intentionally fed one.
I had one steal my sandwich when I lived in DC.
It ran over me to do it.
I still have a scar on my elbow.
I still keep my distance. I don't intentionally chase them, hunt them, shoot them, torture them or run them down in my car. My dog chases them. I can't help that. He's a dog. They're natural enemies.

So tonight, I'm putting up my Christmas tree. I've got it in the stand, I've got it set up. I'm just about to put water in the stand and let it sit so that it settles in the warmth of the house and shows me just how beautiful a tree it'll be. I'm boiling water for hot cocoa. Life is happy and Christmastime. And then I hear a high pitched noise which I presume is the tea pot. I go into the kitchen. It's not the tea pot. I see the dog standing at the door of the room where the furnace is, and I see the cat sniffing at the little vent thing where the furnace takes in the air into that room. They both look intrigued and predatory. I'm thinking there's something amiss.

Then I hear it again. It's like a high pitched scream, but without the scream part. You know, that scream that only dogs can hear. And you wouldn't know about it, but you hear the air moving? That's what I hear. And then I hear frantic scratching in the furnace area. And I think, "Where's Kenai? Is she trapped in there?" And I just about open the door. Until I realize that I saw Kenai earlier that day when she bit me while I was trying to brush the mat out of her fur. I haven't opened the furnace area door since then. So it can't be her.

So I start to get a little freaked out. I'm thinking mouse. Or a rat. Ew. But they don't make those noises. So I crack the door a little. And I see it: that flash of grey fur, the beady eyes, the bushy tail. There is a f*&^ing squirrel in my house. I slam the door shut. I freak out.

Freaking out is very complicated. It involves shuddering, making that "yeeeeuuuggghwwww" noise over and over and walking in circles talking to myself. I remind myself of the scar on my elbow. I try calling my parents, but they're out. I bite my lip to keep from crying. I then make a plan.

I then move the furniture in such a way as to create a route to the back door. I put the dog and the cat I can find upstairs with the baby gate up. I brace myself with a swig of scotch. The good 12 year old stuff. I cry silently to myself, take a deep breath and steel myself for the upcoming round up. I open the door wide.

Nothing.

I hit the door with the lid to the box that I have in my hand for God knows what reason. The squirrel leaps out through the doorway at me, at which point I scream. The beast, landing on the floor, looks around and runs for the Christmas tree (which is near the back door). I'm screaming "GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTOUTOUTOUTOUTOUTTTT!!!!!" at it as it runs. It must have felt the rush of cool air and seen the wide open sliding glass door, because before it shimmies up the tree (an option it hadn't occured to me that the thing would take), it dashes out the door. At that point, I slide the thing shut as quickly as I could. I sit down to stop the shaking (more scotch helps with that), and I scream one more time when the dog knocks over the baby gate on the stairs.

Again, I freak out. Although this time without trying to call my parents.

You'd think it'd be over, wouldn't you? Me too. Until I hear a thumping against the glass door. That's right, the squirrel can't get off the porch because I've put up the baby gate so the dog can run out there without running away. So the bloody thing keeps running into the glass door, thinking that it's getting back in. It hits the door about 5 times until the dog runs to see what's making the noise, and the squirrel freezes, sizes up me and the dog in the window, and then literally hurls itself off the porch.

Don't ask me if it survived, I don't care.

I've been hearing a weird noise under the house and I think it's where the little bugger got in. I think somewhere under my house is some sort of tunnel that runs from the squirrel world to my furnace. And that's just unacceptable. Because I don't want any more squirrels in my house.
Or my yard.
Or my world.
This is war.

As an aside, I went out the next day in the back yard, and there were no squirrel carcasses. I can only assume that the little bugger survived or that the squirrels take care of their own. Leave no man behind and such.