There’s nothing like a squirrel. Bushy-tailed and energetic, one of these little creatures can provide endless entertainment as it scampers up and down a tree, dashing about the limbs. A mob of them, twirling, chasing, flying, looks like a lot of fun.
Looks can deceive.
There’s nothing like a squirrel to undo the good you do in a garden.
Squirrels have done more to tick me off than any other garden pest I’ve had. More than slugs or snails. Or worms (not earthworms; they’re good worms). More than beetles, aphids, white flies, scales or mites. Squirrels, which really are just bushy-tailed rats, are the worst.
Unfortunately, they are much like weather; most gardeners talk about them but realize there’s virtually nothing we can do about them. That hasn’t stopped us from trying, though.
Recently, I heard about a birdseed coated with cayenne pepper, designed to burn the squirrels but not the birds. I don’t buy seed for the birds, relying instead on plant seeds and berries to attract them. But the hot seed reminds me of the time I sprinkled pepper around young, weak little perennial plantings that squirrels so love to raid. With the pepper, I was hoping to make the varmints dance like a Western movie gunslinger dodging lead. Then, there was the time I doused plant leaves with Tabasco, trying to set their mouths on fire.
A couple of years ago, after I heard of a California product using mountain lion urine (I haven’t a clue how they got it), I began spreading cat litter around new plantings in my garden. Also, I’ve tried cat hair and human hair and cedar shavings.
Well, all of these worked for a hot minute. Then, I’d go into the garden and see squirrels scampering away, flicking their tails profanely, leaving behind freshly dug holes–and plants.
Like a basement chemist hopelessly in love with the notion of one day discovering a magic potion, I continue seeking remedies to repel the arrogant rodents.
My latest effort developed after I had solved another problem around the house: gutters. Following their removal, I discovered that the troublesome, eternally leaf-clogged things’ repeated overflowing had rotted even more wood than I had feared. Including a spot at the corner of the house that made an opening just big enough for a squirrel entrance. A couple of the rodents immediately seized the opportunity and took up residence somewhere in the attic above the kitchen.
A wood man repaired the spot and painted all around the edge of the now-gutterless house, leaving me with the nice knowledge that I wouldn’t have to worry again about cleaning gutters a half dozen times a year. And, no small matter, I looked forward to sitting quietly in the kitchen without hearing scampering squirrels doing morning exercises and preparing to dash out to work. Life was improving.
The first morning after the repairs, I heard the heart-sinking sound through the kitchen ceiling:
Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch, scratch, followed by frantic dashing back and forth, then quiet.
The squirrel couple had been sealed in, inadvertently. They were racing around seeking a way out.
A day or so later, before I could answer the question, I happened to look along the roof line on another part of the house, where I saw a brand new hole, just chewed through–from the inside; the pair had escaped.
I moved quickly, buying a piece of sheet metal and a bunch of nails to cover the newly chewed hole. In the process, I got some free advice from the hardware store man on how to make sure the squirrels wouldn’t come back: Put mothballs in the hole, something I knew about, having scattered zillions of them through my garden because squirrels are supposed to hate the smell. I believe the mothballs became squirrel hockey pucks.
The man’s other suggestion was more promising. Sprinkle sulphur around the spot, he said, asserting that squirrels can’t stand it. I don’t know whether they’re supposed to hate inhaling it or whether it burns their raggedy little feet.
Hmmm. Why not sprinkle sulphur around plant containers and on the brickwork too. I did. It seemed to work, as one day I saw a squirrel approach a sulphur-surrounded bonsai tray, newly planted with three trident maples, fresh moss on top of the soil.
The squirrel hopped to within a foot of the tray, stopped at the sulphur line, sniffed the air, twitched its tail, raised a paw as if to step forward, then turned and ran.
Amid my cheering, I had a sobering thought. Had I really won? The squirrel could go to some other garden and avoid my sulphur. I had to stay around and smell its pollution of lovely fragrances: jasmine, wisteria, rose, banana shrub. The acrid-sweet smell reminded me of a childhood remedy for some long-forgotten ailment. Molasses and something.
I reached for the hose. Foiled again. Swish. Gone was the sulphur.
But I hear garlic powder may be worth a try.
