It was a bright and calm morning. I was lost in thought. He caught me unawares as I looked up and saw him there. It was a stare down. We didn’t take our eyes off one another lest the other should make a false move. It was, in fact, like a scene out of the Wild Wild West. Finally, with an uninterrupted steely gaze, unconsciously my left hand slid slowly to unsnap the deep cargo pocket in my coat, my index finger and thumb primed to dip into the Ziploc bag of peanuts that still languished inside … but I stopped myself before I could go there.

* * *

I went outside mid-morning. The balmy air felt like a day at the beach after the frigid temps we’ve endured this week. The heavy down parka was unnecessary so I threw on a lightweight coat that I’ve not worn in many weeks. The sky was a brilliant blue with the sun shining brightly and bisected by twin contrails from recent airplanes that were long gone into the atmosphere but their ruffly white trails lingered on. After squinting at the sun and enjoying its rays on my upturned face, I opened the gate and went around to the backyard for my usual tour, in advance of my handyman Bill’s arrival to work his magic on the ice-packed drain spout.

The backyard sure was pretty with its new layer of freshly fallen snow and the warmer temps made me linger longer than usual. I used my boot to kick aside some of the snow blocking the exit of each of the backyard drain spouts, then I walked around the yard and checked the tracks in the snow to see what visitors had arrived there before me. Ugh. No, make that double ugh. Fresh rat tracks . Unmistakable evidence – multiple star-shaped footprints and narrow, but deep, ruts where their heavy tail drags behind them. Well, whatever good feeling I had about the morning quickly disappeared with this discovery. I spun around in disgust and stalked out of the backyard, only to see more tracks in the snow running parallel to the side of the house and near the outside faucet. Well great … just great. Sure, I know those varmints are out there but must they come up so close to the house and intrude on me like this? I wanted to scream.

It was then that I saw him in my peripheral vision. A chubby squirrel. He evidently saw me first as he sidled over to the edge of my neighbor Marge’s backyard, then clambered up the fence to greet me. Despite his heavy body, he sashayed along the top of the fence with all the skill of an acrobat, picking up speed as he got closer. He stopped abruptly; then he stared at me long and hard. He looked miserable with snow clinging to tufts of fur around his face and ears. But I, on the heels of the rat track discovery, was not immediately full of the warm fuzzies like usual when faced with that “please feed me, I’m hungry” look. At that particular moment, I thought of him as a step away from the rodent family that plagued my yard … and my thoughts. He swished his tail back and forth, in an extra effort to get my attention and then chattered at me. I do not “speak squirrel” but I suppose he smelled the peanuts that were tucked inside my pocket from my last trek to Council Point Park. Maybe he saw the plastic bag which probably peeked through the tear in that pocket. I shook my head vehemently and said “no, I won’t feed you – I don’t want you leaving nuts or shells lying about as a further invitation for the rats to visit … no, no, no” … without further ado, I closed the gate and walked to the front yard. He, who was clearly not going to take “no” for an answer, quickly followed me. This little imp reminded me of my peanut pal at the Park, but I did not soften my stance and acquiesce to him. I opened the garage door and felt a presence behind me. Yes, there he was again, and now I had to be careful he did not slip into the garage while I was running the car and disappear in there. But, he sat there just “good as gold” and very obediently, first while I ran the car, and then as I was sweeping out a little pile of snow that had drifted inside, despite my doorstops positioned at either side of the garage. He sat up on his haunches and begged. My heart began to melt as he wore me down, but just then Bill arrived, so I was spared any more guilt over not doling out treats. I closed the garage door and met Bill at the drain spout . He brought his usual tools for the ice-dam surgery: a chisel, an ice pick, a mallet and a blow torch. Except for the blow torch, he might have been Yukon Cornelius, out in the snow-encrusted tundra. Bill clanged and banged on the drain spout with a clatter that would wake the dead, and I thought that inside the house, Buddy probably woke up with a start and wondered what the heck I was doing to rudely disturb his slumber. The ice didn’t drop down right away. Still more banging. Then Bill removed the drain spout and took the pieces apart then banged on them some more. He chipped away at the ice with his ice pick and finally he shook the pipe and voila, a long piece of ice that resembled a half-popsicle without the food coloring emerged with a thunk. The surgery was a success, and the pieces were re-assembled and all is good to go until gusty winds blow more debris inside. Bill and I commiserated about the Winter and we parted. As I walked up the side of the house, once again my little friend crossed my path ready for another meeting of the minds. I quickly shook my head “no” … and we both beat a hasty path to our respective nests.