06/30/2026
Simon, Alvin or Theodore.
We feed the birds. Year around we set out seeds in two feeders. Grape jelly in the orange oriole feeder, suet cakes too.
Hummingbirds show up at their sipping spot.
We sit at our dining room table, longer than we probably should, and talk about the red bellied woodpeckers, grosbeaks, finches, nuthatches, hairy woodpeckers, downy wood peckers….
You get the picture.
We feed lots of birds.
And not so feathered friends.
And not friends either.
I did battle with a red squirrel this spring who ate the spilled sunflower seeds. That was okay until he decided to think our barn was his.
He fell for a pine cone covered in peanut butter in the live trap. I rehomed him in the woods behind Mickeys. He came back to his barn after two days.
An addiction to my favorite sandwich spread found him heading to another set of woods further away. He hasn’t been back.
Then the chipmunk with no tail showed up uninvited.
“Look Papa, it’s so tute”
Isla thought so, (she is a little Dutchy).
She meant cute.
Papa didn’t think so.
That one lived down back and after we didn’t see if for a while I figured one of the neighborhood cats had it for lunch.
Then another freeloader, perhaps Alvin, started crossing the porch to stuff his cheeks full.
Okay, live and let live.
That is until he found his way through the crawl space vents under our family room.
No way was that acceptable.
I blocked his entrance hoping he would find a new residence, perhaps as a meal for a hungry feline.
No, Alvin or who ever he was started digging under our front step evident by the gravel he had excavated.
This meant war.
I got my weapon of choice. My Marksman air pistol. My brother Pat gave it to me in 1975 for
Christmas purchased at Weston’s in Vestal long before the other W store came to town.
Left Hand Luke wasn’t going to let him win.
Locked and loaded I sat on the bench and waited. He wasn’t showing his beady eyes so I did what hunters do today. I started looking at my phone.
He came out, saw me, did the Hula and went back in before I could get the pistol up.
Stupid phone.—
The orange and white cat that was supposed to be hunting him instead of me slept on the Welcome mat.
Thanks Stu Stu.
Phone down, pistol ready, traffic passed by on 187. I hoped no one would report a gray haired man sitting on his porch with a gun in hand. I envisioned sirens and lights, police with their guns drawn telling me to drop my weapon.
Patience paid off, he showed his snout then his head.
Safe off, squeeze the trigger and a miss. Apparently a chipmunk can move faster than 330 feet per second. Or I am a bad shot.
Two more misses.
The cat yawned and strolled off, I swear I heard him laugh.
Out of ammunition, I raced upstairs to get more BBs. Okay I walked. I don’t race, that was the last story.
I got back to the war zone just in time to see the chipmunk standing up next to his gravel pile.
He was laughing as well.
Not sure if Alvin had a middle finger but I thought he waved it at me.
Scooting back in and popping back out to watch me watching him. A very small target especially at the long range of 48”.
Two more misses.
I was ready to let him have another day.
One more chance and the shot felt right.
I waited. No beady eye or tiny nose came forth.
I shoved the gravel back in front of the hole where he kept appearing.
If it was still there tomorrow, then maybe, just maybe I was a successful hunter.
The smell would tell in a few days.
I love hearing the Chipmunks at Christmas. Chip and Dale entertained me as a young fellow, Brad liked the Rescue Rangers when he was a boy.
They are “tute” just not when they are breaking and entering. I really would like to live and let live but I had to defend our homestead from intruders like the settlers back in the day. Or Kevin McAllister.
I pray that we are feeding just birds from now on.
I also pray that Simon and Theodore aren’t as mischievous as Alvin and choose to live somewhere else.
But if not, I have over a thousand BBs, closer at hand now.
I just pray there is not a sequel to this story!
