Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, December 13, 1993 TAG: 9401150016
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A7 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Monty S. Leitch
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Daily, a couple of red squirrels argue over the sunflower seeds I put out on the bird feeder. They argue with each other. They argue with the birds. They'd argue with me if I gave them half a chance.
One of these squirrels lives, I think, in the bramble of white pines and blackberry canes behind the barn. The other, I'm certain, lives in the attic of the converted tool shed that houses my office.
I'm certain of this second residence because the resident makes such substantial racket upon both egress and ingress. And because I've seen his bright blinking eyes watching me from the eaves upon my egress and ingress, too.
I try to keep enough sunflower seeds out at the feeder for everyone, but the squirrels argue anyway.
Last week, on a particularly busy day, I didn't get out with the seeds until around 2 in the afternoon. The platform on which I spread them was clean as a whistle. Not a shred of sunflower hull. Not a speck of sunflower dust. If I didn't know better, I'd say the squirrels had licked that platform clean.
I spread around the wealth and then went back into my office to get a little work done.
No sooner had I sat down at the computer (which, by the way, is situated so that I can shift my eyes from the screen to the feeder at whim), no sooner had I sat down than the chickadees, juncoes and winter-dressed goldfinches flocked to the seeds. They'd been hiding in the brush, hungry, waiting for me.
Two seconds later, the squirrels arrived, too. One from this direction, one from that.
``You get outta here!'' they shouted at each other.
``No, you get outta here!''
``Scram!'' they shouted in unison at the birds.
The birds flitted off to nearby branches to watch the show. First one red squirrel, then the other red squirrel charged the platform. Even inside my office I could hear them hollering. Such language they used!
Once or twice I went out and shooed them off, hoping the birds could get in a bite or two, as well. Nothing but foolishness on my part, really, but I felt I had to try.
I'd get back inside, sit down at the computer, glance up, and there would stand one of the squirrels, with his cheeks so fat with sunflower seeds it looked as though he'd tip over backwards. The instant he left for his cache, the other would arrive. Soon, fat-cheeked, near to tipping, he'd lumber off, too, and the first would come back, ready to go at it again.
Finally, I understood: Sharing is a concept unrecognized by squirrels.
In a few days you'll find it necessary to shout at your children, ``Let your sister play with that, too!'' You'll find yourself saying, ``Now, son, remember to share.''
Your children will turn on you with feral faces. They'll glare. They'll puff out their cheeks and ball their fists until it will look as though one of them might fall over with frustration.
Think, then, about squirrels. Nothing you could ever say to a squirrel, nothing you could ever demonstrate would clarify the concept. But eventually, praise God, your children will understand.
\ Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times & World-News columnist.
by CNB