I have lost my tomato war with the squirrels. I admit it. I tried to fight the good fight, but I am beat, whipped, defeated. My plants grew the size of trees, yet furry-tailed thieves stole every tomato but two runty lumps, which I ate like a cave man right off the vine while staring at them in anger. After that small taste, the minute a little tomato appears, so do three hungry-ass squirrels.
Worse than my defeat is Rudy’s defeat. It had to be tough for him, being a Jack Russell and all. The squirrels just gangsta’d up on us and overtook the place. They flaunted their fruitlifting, too. A group of them sat on the deck rail this week, brazenly munching away so Rudy and I could see them. One of them flipped me off, I swear.
Only once did we have a chance at justice. It was last Monday afternoon. I came home and saw three squirrels on the rail again, doing their culinary damnedest to eat the few green tomatoes that had sprouted. They were lined up like at a Chinese buffet and were going at it.
I snuck to the door and let Rudy out. He charged. They leaped. It’s almost 15 feet to the ground from that rail. Rudy galloped down the stairs. Two squirrels dropped their booty in free flight, landed and took off. The third squirrel held his tomato tight, catching it in the gut. Hell, yeah, it knocked the breath out of him. He struggled, heaving and gasping for breath. Rudy was on him like stink on a plumber’s friend.
I jumped into the air, arms pumping, yelling like it was a Super Bowl tackle. But the squirrel sucked in enough breath to contorted into a wiener shape and was gone in a scramble, leaving Rudy with a snout-full of tail fuzz and a confused look on his face.
We were both deflated. Adding insult to indignity, Rudy injured his back in the attempted apprehension. Now he is limping around, tail-tucked, mopey-faced and embarrassed, schooled by a gut-punched squirrel.
At eight, Rudy is old enough in human years to get his AARP card. He’s not as fast as he used to be. His back hurts and his joints ache when he runs too much. I can hear him moan in his sleep. Even jumping on the bed is getting difficult at times.
He has outlived his two neighborhood archenemy cats. The birds he used to lord over are gone. He is physically restrained from the Dyson Animal vacuum he deeply despises. Now these tomato-chomping tree rats taunt him into gimpiness. He has one last beatable adversary: The water hose. Even it has a downside.
When we turn on the hose. He attacks it like Shark Week on Discovery. When he is finished gulping a belly-full, he heists his leg a hundred times and pees for hours on everything in the yard. All of the leg-heisting causes him more pain, more limping, more moaning. Yet still has his Jack pride and gives it all a first class try. Deep down, however, he and I both know that he is running out of things to hate.
Tags: Animals, Dogs, Personal Stories, Rudy