Squirrel patrol

I come from a long line of squirrel haters. If a scientific study were to come out tomorrow that global warming is making squirrels extinct, most everyone in my family, I think, would start every car they own, turn up the thermostat (after changing the heating system from fuel oil to coal... good, dirty coal), light a fire in the fireplace and break into the refrigerator's compressor long enough to release the freon into the atmosphere.

My Dad spent a large chunk of his retirement catching squirrels in the backyard and then hauling them over to Crow Hill to release them. They either found their way back, or there were plenty of ready replacements. He's dead now. The squirrels are still there.

They had a dog, Sam, who loved to run after the squirrels. She, too, is dead.

My mother is still very much alive and chasing squirrels, too, who are also -- it should be pointed out, still very much alive.

Somewhere along the line, there is a genetic disorientation in the Collins clan, because I recently moved the bird feeder in the front yard over to just in front of the window in the family room, so I could watch birds and squirrels. The birds don't seem to mind the squirrels, and neither do I.

I have to go. I have to let the dog out. He wants to chase some squirrels. He thinks they're rabbits that climb trees. Stupid dog.