Today a

story of one man's battle against demons from -

well, if not Hades, then some similar sinkhole of

sedition, subversion and sabotage.

The events

I am about to divulge took place several years ago. I

don't know about statutes of limitations on the criminal

activities committed by Our Hero in the course of

defending his home and family. So don't even think about

asking; his identity is my sworn secret.

Several

years ago, Our Hero and his wife began hearing squirrels

in the attic of their home. It seemed rather cute, the

scurrying and scampering about - until the day one

became trapped in a wall, and another when Our Hero went

up there and found the Christmas decorations literally

quivering.

The

squirrels had to go. Our gentle Hero set a live trap,

caught one of the interlopers, and carried it several

miles away to be released unharmed.

Next day,

when he caught another, he thought he'd make sure it

wasn't the same squirrel coming back, and painted its

tail green before freeing it.

On the

third day, he painted the squirrel du jour's tail red,

and on the fourth, yellow.

The

squirrel he caught on the fifth day had a green tail.

The contest

was no longer amusing. These were fuzzy-tailed rodents,

not adorable cartoon characters. They were the enemy and

this was war.

Green Tail

met an early demise - details better left

unreported, but in truth, the experience was unsettling

to Our Hero, a sensitive man. On the advice of an animal

behaviorist that the sight of a dead family member would

scare off other squirrels, he threw Green's body on the

roof.

Did I

mention that Our anonymous Hero is a clergyman, pastor of

a large area church you've never heard of? No wonder the

image of him lobbing a dead squirrel to the roof of a

two-story house is so jarring. His profession virtually

mandates kindliness and compassion.

But the

first enemy kill is the hardest, soldiers will tell you,

even an Onward Christian Soldier, and the reverend found

it easier to dispatch another. He went so far as to

deploy their cadavers over the vents where they had been

chewing their way in.

The carnage

continued until the squirrels learned to avoid the trap.

Apparently, however, they had not heard about the

supposed deterrent effect of the sight of their cousins

lying dead on the shingles, colored tails blowing softly

in the wind. Callous beyond comprehension, their

occupation of the attic continued unabated.

Our Hero

tried everything. He had a tree trimmer remove the limbs

from a tree near the house, then watched as the rampaging

rodents learned to jump to his chimney from another tree.

Unperturbed, they overcame every barrier, including the

bodies of their kin, to get to what was clearly choice

habitat for raising replacements.

Our Hero

came nearly undone when he found a branch more than two

feet long forced into the attic exhaust fan, causing the

motor to burn out. The situation had escalated to

dangerous. An electrician replaced the fan, and hardware

wire was installed over every aperture in the roof.

Artillery

dispatched three more, before word passed through the rat

ranks: "Stay on the far side of the tree when the

idiot comes out with the air rifle." The preacher

finally threw up his hands in surrender when he looked up

one day to see a furry head sticking out of a hole in the

highest gable of his house, jeering at him.

And so it

went for several years. One solution after another

apparently worked, then failed, and the rodent colony

seemed a permanent installation.

Until this

spring when Our Hero had the house painted. With proper

scaffolding, repairmen replaced all the chewed-out wood

and installed hardware wire over every possible entry.

And just like that, no more squirrels.

It was as

though the clan had gone out for lunch and when they came

back, couldn't get in, and have not been heard from

since.

Thank

heaven, says Our Hero.

This story

has a postscript. The beleaguered cleric's office staff

had heard so much about his jihad that they went to

elaborate lengths to celebrate his birthday last year in

a manner befitting his obsession.

Every

birthday card had a squirrel on it; every gift was a toy

squirrel, or nuts, or ears of corn. For weeks afterward,

whenever he opened a book or unfolded a clerical robe, a

picture of a squirrel would flutter out.

There were

"squirrels" everywhere.

At about

this time the church building was being extensively

renovated. Even when construction left large gaps in

walls and roof, services continued as usual. Had I not

been an eyewitness, I would not have believed what

happened on Maundy Thursday evening, during one of the

most solemn observances in the church year.

Our Hero

was beginning his sermon when a furtive movement at the

chancel steps caught the attention of a worshipper in the

front row. In moments the entire assembly was craning to

see that the preacher - who was the last to notice

- was sharing the dais with a small, furry gray

squirrel, bathed in light, looking from side to side as

though he had no idea how he got there or how to leave.

As pianist

that evening, I was in the choir loft. The little

squirrel dashed up the short ramp and stopped at my feet.

I considered throwing my jacket over him, but that would

have caused even more commotion. Then he noticed me and

took off down a side aisle, where an usher courteously

opened a door and let him out.

Our

reverend Hero had been outdone again by a bushy-tailed

rat.

And the

church staff categorically denies complicity.

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