Spring is in the air! (And in my nose. I can’t stop sneezing.) The snow is melting, the buds are sprouting, the birds are chirping, and the rodents… they’re encroaching. For some, spring is a time to rejoice; there’s prom, spring sports, and summer vacation is almost in sight. For others, spring is stressful, with SATs, AP exams, and college decisions. But for one West Hartford man, spring is pandemonium. 

Meet 46 year old Avi Patt Arnold Palmer (name changed for HIPAA compliance). By day, he is an innocuous college professor, hummus connoisseur, shameless Houston Astros defender. By night, he is a vigilante, defending the gardens and trees of his backyard from ferocious furry invaders—in his own words, a squirrel-icidal maniac. 

When asked about his pursuits, he is guarded, tight lipped. What he fears, Professor Palmer will not say, but one can only guess the devastation that will ensue should the squirrels drop their acorns and wrap their claws around his spilled secrets.

Like most vices, Palmer’s began as a coping mechanism. Trapped for hours in Zoom board meetings with elderly committee members, the professor couldn’t help but seek a respite from the nagging questions about what the “youth” (people under 50) are into. So he turned his camera off and gazed out the window, like a widow longing for her love lost at sea. But instead, his eyes locked with his soon to be sworn enemy— “Sciurus carolinensis” — the Eastern Gray Squirrel. Palmer’s blood boiled, his hummus-filled stomach churned, he broke his own knuckles from clenching his fists so hard. They were mauling his one true love. Not his wife, but his peach tree.

To win the battle against the vermin, and defend the tree’s honor, Palmer needed to brush up on military tactics. Between grading papers on Philip Roth and adjusting his desk chair, he read Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War”. He played his son in chess. And lost. He rewatched “Saving Private Ryan”. Now he was ready to win. No, he was ready to destroy. 

An abridged list of his methods are as follows:

• He put a picture of an owl in the window
• He screamed at the squirrels
• He blasted rap music (it was Ice Cube)
• He sprinkled dried blood flakes around the tree
• He sprayed Deer Urine Extract™ on the base of the tree
• He sprayed his own urine on the base of the tree
• He placed a garden gnome under the tree 

None of the methods worked; the squirrels ate every last peach. Palmer retreated back into his study in anguish. Never before has such a creature utterly broken a man. 

“Squirrels are my white whale,” he said, tears forming in his eyes. 

“How about chipmunks?” I inquired.

“I hate chipmunks too, just not as much as squirrels.” He was silent for a moment, deep in thought. “The best squirrel is a dead squirrel.” 

At this time, Professor Palmer’s whereabouts are unknown. Experts believe he has gone off the grid, foraging for nuts and berries, and I dare say peaches, plotting his revenge. Squirrels, beware!