Hi, I’m Andreana, one of Becky’s new OKC friends. I was telling Becky this story yesterday over coffee, and she asked me if I’d write a guest post. Of course I said yes.
This post might seem to go contrary to the spirit of Becky’s blog—“converting the cynics one post at a time”—but I can assure you that I am, in fact, a converted cynic: after just 6 months, I confess loudly and freely to those who will listen that I love Oklahoma City. I must say, however, that no matter how much I love this town, our teams (especially my boy Serge), my friends, and my community here, there are some things about this place that simply boggle my mind. Driving is one (and man alive, these drivers are BAD. Oklahomans seem to loose all sense of direction, protocol, and decorum when in and around cars. And what, pray tell, do Oklahomans have against merging lanes?!?!) My recent experience with “pest control”—and the subject of today’s guest blog post—is to my mind another of Oklahoma’s enigmas. So, instead of “converting the cynics one post at a time”, let’s call what follows . . . “pointing out Oklahoma’s endearing eccentricities”.
First, a warning: What follows is not for the faint of heart. Oklahoma isn’t really a place for the faint of heart anyway, come to think of it, so it’s probably just as well that you stop reading now if you aren’t sure you can handle what is about to come.
Here’s the story: As often happens with old houses, some squirrels found a nice, dry, cool corner of my attic in which to nest. Apparently—and who can blame them—they thought it would be good refuge of tornado season. Knowing the hell damage that squirrels can cause, I dutifully called my landlady at the first (oddly loud) pattering from above my office. Next day, Lane the Critter Guy, with his trusty sidekick “Digger the Trained Critter Dog” (not kidding), arrived. Lane and “Digger the Trained Critter Dog” were nice enough, and seemed professional—he (Lane) even handed me a magnet business card for my refrigerator and to “pass along to my friends”.
Lane set about making repairs to the roof to keep any new squirrels from getting in, and set a trap at the only remaining exit to catch the squirrels on their way out of the roof. He showed me where the trap was set and instructed me to check it daily and to text him with a status report. If necessary, he’d come out and remove the squirrel(s). It seemed simple enough to me, so I agreed and sent Lance and “Digger the Trained Critter Dog” on their way.
But, really, y’all I should have known better. As Becky has told you, Oklahoma is full of extremes. Just full of ‘em. And squirrel catching is apparently no exception.
Lane didn’t just set traps, he set lynches. Every time a squirrel ran through the box attached to my house, it tripped the trap and (here’s where you can begin to scroll down if you are not of Oklahoma-caliber nerves) lynched the squirrel. Seriously, it grasped the squirrel ‘round the neck with a steel cable and left it hanging there, swinging in the breeze.
Now, I was raised in California (home of more hippies than anywhere else on Earth, I’d wager) and then moved to Chicago (a very crunchy, liberal, animal-loving, eco-friendly city). Needless to say, a lynched squirrel was the last thing I’d expected when I walked out to “check” the traps that first morning. I’d just assumed that these were going to be humane traps and that “removing” the squirrel meant releasing him into some empty field on the other side of I-235.
Yeah . . . no.
So, as any good Oklahoman would, I steeled myself to this fate of lynched squirrels hanging from the eaves above my office and texted Lane and “Digger the Trained Critter Dog” daily with a status update: “Yes” or “No”. Everything seemed to be going fine (the horror of lynched squirrels notwithstanding) until last Friday night, when I slipped out of the house to pick up a few things at Whole Foods. I know . . . famous last words, right?
In the 30 minutes that I was gone, all hell unfolded at Chez Prichard: Apparently—or such as I could tell from the horror-stricken neighbor telling this story—two squirrels tried to sneak through the noose at once. The noose only killed one, however, leaving the other caught and squealing in pain. The noise wretched my neighbors from their sitting room into my driveway, where they found the squirrel hanging, writhing in agony. Unable to stand the sight or the sound, Ted determined to put the poor animal out of its misery. He grabbed the pellet gun from the front room (just where I keep mine . . . ) and took aim. Its not exactly clear what happened next (Mary was in no shape to tell me, and Ted was nowhere to be found), but if the carnage that is my backyard can give us any clues, either Ted is a terrible shot or that squirrel didn’t go down without a fight.
I’m still not sure what was worse: the thought and the scene of the crime, or seeing Mary with the pellet gun trying to relate the story. Neither was pretty. Nor was Lane’s face when he showed up at 10:30 that night in response to my urgent message to “get over here immediately and deal with the situation”. I think that a nice bottle of wine has soothed relations between my neighbors and I, but let’s just say that I won’t be sharing Lane the Critter Guy and “Digger the Trained Critter Dog”’s magnetic business card with anyone any time soon.
Oklahoma Love 