Talking to Squirrels (final week)

You might think that the squirrels would have their candidate selection made by the seventh week of the campaign, but there seemed to be more confusion than ever Monday morning. Even the birds around the feeders were being less than sociable to each other. The little nuthatches were chasing the woodpeckers away from the suet, the two mourning doves just gave up and left after the rock doves started throwing wings around like Gordie Howe’s elbows.

To top it all off, the redpolls were back in force, asking everyone, between nips at the Niger seed, how they were going to vote. The number of undecided voters appeared to be growing, especially after Jack, the red squirrel, changed his approach. He was now asking the others to vote for him if they no longer wanted to vote for Paul, the black squirrel. His argument was that to have some progressive opposition to Stephen, they had to vote for him.

Asked if he was now the New Democratic Progressive party, he launched into an explanation that left me more than a little confused. He claimed that his was the only progressive party now. The Conservatives were no longer conservative, but liberal in their social policies; the Liberals were conservative in their financial policy and NDP in their social policies. The Green party sounded like neo-conservatives in their tax ideas and so far to the left in social polices that he could not see how their ideas were compatible. Which made me wonder what had happened to Jack’s usual support from the union people.

Tuesday morning dawned very cold and most of the squirrels and their feathered friends slept in. Only Gilles, the grey squirrel, came to the feeding station. He ate a few striped sunflower seeds and then asked for his peanut treat before heading back home across the creek. I commented on the cold, saying I did not blame him for going home and back to bed. He assured me he had no time to sleep since he had to change his campaign strategy at this late date. He no longer had to fight off Paul’s gang but now Stephen’s black squirrels were suddenly gaining a lot of support.

Gilles blamed it all on the redpolls who were spreading the word that Stephen was going to win more seats, maybe even some of his seats! He had heard that some of the liberal-minded birds were going to change over to Stephen. I told him that the redpolls only reported what they had heard, but he questioned their veracity. At least, he said, the red squirrels had not shown up in what he called his territory. I was going to warn him about Jack’s new strategy, but I remembered the Prime Directive that my wife imposed on me about interfering with nature.

Thursday morning, the talk was about Paul’s new friend, Buzzy. Buzzy, the red squirrel who was formerly Jack’s friend, seemed to be having trouble with his definitions. He seemed to be getting nationalism mixed up with capitalism, socialism with liberalism and cronyism with friendship. Buzzy got his nickname from trying to study bees and their work habits in the hope of picking up some hints for the working squirrels. The consensus this morning was that Buzzy had been stung one too many times.

A pair of starlings from downtown appeared about ten o’clock, asking for Stephen, the black squirrel. After eating a crop-full of suet, they said they had been sent to look into Stephen’s eyes. Someone had told them that there was something scary in his eyes. Now I had heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but knowing some politicians myself, I thought the shades were drawn in most cases. Paul arrived and the starlings mistook him for Stephen. He had no idea what they were doing or why the one starling squawked ‘bloodshot’ as they flew away.

Friday morning, the most unusual sight greeted me as I took my coffee outside to catch up on the local gossip. I immediately thought we had been invaded by gophers: all the squirrels – black, red an grey – were standing on their back legs with their front paws neatly folded in front of them, ears erect. I had seen this pose before when the critters were begging for more peanuts, but they were not facing me, but each other. They were making quiet little noises to each other and I confess it took me a minute or two to catch on. They were begging. For votes!

Talk about pathetic. ‘Hey!’ I shouted, sending them all scurrying for safety. ‘Have you no pride? Stop the whining and begging – get out there and campaign like real Squirrels! You still have a couple of days left before the election. If you expect seeds and nuts here on Tuesday morning, you had better get your acts together.’

With that stern admonishment, I went back indoors and turned on my radio. Damned if the real politicians were not doing the same thing: begging for votes. Oh well, despite them, I’ll vote on Monday.