horror of east coast suburbs

I used to love squirrels. The mere sight of these furry little creatures sitting on their haunches turns us all into Veruca Salts, ready to demand "Daddy, I want one!" I used to love squirrels. The mere sight of these furry little creatures sitting on their haunches turns us all into Veruca Salts, ready to demand "Daddy, I want one!" Growing up, I had pet rodents of all shapes and sizes, so even their more-than-tenuous DNA connectedness to vermin didn't trouble me one bit.

Until I got to the East Coast.

My first indication that something was awry was when we put up a bird feeder. One of the rare treats of living on the East Coast (other than easy access to White Castle) is the variety of bird species that live in our neighborhood. So I figured I'd make it easier for them to eat, and encourage them to spend time at our house. Only to find, to my horror, that there's a pecking order whose top pecker is no aviation-minded mammal but rather a Mafioso-esque band of furry, bushy-tailed rodents.

The first dead bird appeared on our deck back in October. I figured it had eaten something bad on the ground (remember, this is New Jersey we're talking about) and that had been that. But then there was another corpse... and another... and soon it became very clear that a message was being sent.

I watched with my own two eyes as, one morning, a pack of squirrels (led by one specially aggressive one with a black spot on his back, who I now refer to as Paulie Acorns) calmly surrounded the bird feeder and proceeded to chase the birds away. They then proceeded to climb up the pole and empty the feeder of half of its contents.

Half of its contents -- exactly. Apparently even the squirrels around here understand the concept of exacting tribute.

Nothing worked; the organic sprays that the orange aprons at Home Depot assured me would do the trick? An apertif. The baffler I affixed was easily circumnavigated (I think I heard what sounded like a rat-like snickering from Paulie as he lobbed sunflower seeds down to his soldier underlings). So, like any extortion target, I conceded defeat. Let them eat birdseed.

Ah, if only it was that simple.

Because, like true Mafiosi, they're not satisfied with merely taking enough. And, like true Mafiosi, they've moved on to another area long controlled by those of their ilk.

Garbage. I now wake up every Wednesday to find the contents of my garbage cans -- which I put out every Tuesday night -- strewn all over my lawn. How, you ask, is this possible? Apparently Paulie and Co. took a page out of the escape tactics of some of their prison bound predecessors and tunneled through.

That's right. Just ate through the plastic until they had a hole big enough to access every eggshell, orange rind, and steak scrap in our cans.

Dead birds... sanitation. What's next; a nightclub singer girlfriend they're pushing for my next film?