The second day of Christmas is normally the purview of a pair of French hens, but today I was visited by a squirrel who clearly sings from a different song sheet.
The nice part about living in a rural suburb is the abundance of wildlife. The problem with living in a rural suburb is the abundance of wildlife. I’ll be the first to defend the critters in the neighborhood. Like the rest of us, they’re all out there just trying to make a living. Unfortunately for my yard, that means they punch the clock on my decorative landscaping.
Over the years, I’ve learned that while I can plant all the pretty ornamental plants that I see at the garden center, it’s unlikely I’ll see them reach maturity. The herds of deer that roam the woods behind the house seem to have first dibs. They’re numerous, ravenous, and almost indiscriminate. Almost. It wasn’t until I’d sacrificed more cash in the form of annuals and perennials than I care to discuss that I’d stumbled upon the discovery that they leave boxwood alone. Boxwood it is, then! But I still longed for beautiful flowers and tender greenery.
Then, just like the Grinch who stole Christmas from the Whos, I had an idea. I had a wonderful, awful idea; well, awful from the deer’s point of view. I’d hang window boxes! They’d be just the thing to keep those tasty annuals out of reach of the hoards of hooved ruminants that stalk the neighborhood at night. Finally, I could have pretty, tender, blooming things and see them outside my window for almost three quarters of the year. As a bonus, in winter I could decorate them with boughs of greenery and winterberries and light them with solar lanterns. Magic will spill from their white vinyl contents all year round. My botanical dreams were coming to fruition!
Cue the squirrels.
The great thing about deer, as it turns out, is that they can’t climb. Squirrels, however, live a life that only a member of Cirque du Soleil can rival. Window boxes are like luxury boxes at Gillette Stadium for squirrels. They can sit up high and survey the action on the ground under the protective cover of the eaves, safe from the watchful eyes of the raptors and owls. The soft soil in the boxes is perfect for a nap after they’ve buried whatever they plan to eat in six months. Which is what today’s not-a-French-hen was up to. Then, when the birds have knocked enough seed onto the ground under the feeder, they can swing by for a quick supper before the rush hour traffic of deer emerging from the woods gets underway. It’s like Club Med in the 80’s.
Fortunately, for reasons to which I am not privy but am grateful, the squirrels restrict their storage, snacking, and napping to the boxes next to the front stairs. They’re the easiest to reach with a brief hop from the railing. They also sit in the wreath on the front door and peer through the windows at the top. I imagine it’s to see what the help is up to. Just in case they can read, I hold up my phone to show that I’m Googling recipes for venison and squirrel stew. I don’t know how tight they are with the deer population, but if there’s anything other than boxwood alive in the spring, I’ll have my answer and be first in line at the garden center after the last chance of frost.
* Erratum: If you’ve made it this far, you’ve likely realized that on the second day of Christmas two turtledoves are the prescribed gift, not Gallic fowl. Yeah, well, it’s been a hectic holiday season and my brain is the consistency of gingerbread that was dropped in eggnog. Unfortunately, spellcheck doesn’t catch botched Christmas carol lyrics. Now that it’s officially the third day of Christmas, French hens are all the rage and the choir can simply fix the mistake in the next round. Except that’s not a choir I hear. It’s the sound of squirrels laughing.