I thought I was winning.
I really did.After years of humiliating defeats, I finally bought the legendary Squirrel Buster feeder — the one with the weight-activated perches that slam shut the moment anything heavier than a blue tit lands on it.The little birds were delighted. They were finally getting a decent meal without being mugged.The magpies tried it once, failed, and now won’t even look at it. Victory!Then the squirrels arrived.They looked at the fancy new feeder, tilted their heads, and clearly thought:
Challenge accepted.First they tried the baffles. Ignored them.Then they tried chewing through the branch. Succeeded.Then they discovered the lid.Yes, dear reader. My elite squirrel operatives learned how to unscrew the lid and go in from the top like tiny furry burglars.I tightened the lid. Extra firm. Like my life depended on it.It worked… for three whole days.Then I found the feeder wide open again, half the seed gone, and a suspiciously satisfied-looking squirrel sitting on the swing licking his paws.I stood there in my dressing gown, defeated, and whispered to the garden:“You absolute little gits.”The squirrel just looked at me, flicked his tail, and parachuted off the swing like he was leaving a Michelin-starred restaurant.Meanwhile, the Cordyline watched the whole thing from the border, looking more tragic than ever, as if to say:“I told you this garden was a bad idea.”Felicity strolled past, gave me her best “you poor deluded human” look, and carried on to her usual breakfast spot.So here we are. Round 47.Score so far:Squirrels: 47
Me: 0I’m seriously considering mounting a metal pole in the middle of the lawn with a giant cone baffle, a spinning CD, and a moat. But let’s be honest — they’ll just use it as a new Olympic training facility and charge admission.The only thing that still works is the wide little-bird feeder. The littlies have claimed it as their sacred safe space. Even the magpies have accepted defeat on that one.Small victories.I’ll take them where I can get them.
Challenge accepted.First they tried the baffles. Ignored them.Then they tried chewing through the branch. Succeeded.Then they discovered the lid.Yes, dear reader. My elite squirrel operatives learned how to unscrew the lid and go in from the top like tiny furry burglars.I tightened the lid. Extra firm. Like my life depended on it.It worked… for three whole days.Then I found the feeder wide open again, half the seed gone, and a suspiciously satisfied-looking squirrel sitting on the swing licking his paws.I stood there in my dressing gown, defeated, and whispered to the garden:“You absolute little gits.”The squirrel just looked at me, flicked his tail, and parachuted off the swing like he was leaving a Michelin-starred restaurant.Meanwhile, the Cordyline watched the whole thing from the border, looking more tragic than ever, as if to say:“I told you this garden was a bad idea.”Felicity strolled past, gave me her best “you poor deluded human” look, and carried on to her usual breakfast spot.So here we are. Round 47.Score so far:Squirrels: 47
Me: 0I’m seriously considering mounting a metal pole in the middle of the lawn with a giant cone baffle, a spinning CD, and a moat. But let’s be honest — they’ll just use it as a new Olympic training facility and charge admission.The only thing that still works is the wide little-bird feeder. The littlies have claimed it as their sacred safe space. Even the magpies have accepted defeat on that one.Small victories.I’ll take them where I can get them.
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