.08 Squirrels, Costco, and Cults: Backyard Warfare & Childhood Battles

On rodents, religion, rebellion — and why Costco feels like liberation.

I’d like to say this is about squirrels, but really, it’s about control. And chaos. And the small, ridiculous negotiations we make every day to keep our little worlds intact. It’s also about Costco, childhood, BB guns, and the realization that no matter how much we try to manage things, something – whether it’s a squirrel, a well-meaning handyman, or a father with very specific dress-code expectations – always has other plans.

Our neighborhood teems with squirrels. Two varieties roam rampant: a small, unassuming grey sort and a reddish-brown breed equipped with impressively fluffy tails and teeth that curve unattractively – albeit impressively – over their bottom lips. I discovered the extent of their dental menace firsthand when, while watering the lilies, I stumbled upon the decaying remains of one in the backyard. Its enormous yellow incisors glared at me grotesquely as the skin around them peeled away.

Naturally, I summoned the children. I like them to encounter death now and then – a decaying squirrel providing a gentle segue to human mortality. “I want you to push the button when the time comes,” I remind them often. “Ideally, you'd wash and wrap my body too, but I understand that might be asking a bit much.” They eye me warily, exchanging glances before carefully redirecting the conversation to safer territory.

Growing up, death wasn’t exactly a dinner-table topic. It remained abstract and conceptual; something far scarier, it turned out, than simply acknowledging the inevitable decay of bodies or loss of loved ones. Around age ten, my dad walked me to school one blistering morning and casually inquired if I wished to go to heaven after I died. (Heard this before? This story is one of my classics.)

“Of course,” I lied solemnly.

Truth was, if heaven remotely resembled what members of The Truth described – full of stern-faced adults murmuring grim psalms – I was pretty sure I’d opt for hell instead. Dad didn’t doubt my solemn lie, however, as we pressed forward on the baking sidewalk.

“Then you need to wear dresses,” he pronounced gravely.

“I already wear dresses,” I protested gently, ever mindful of tone and pacing. “Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

I had strategically pre-empted this conversation, knowing it was best to avoid talking to Dad about…well, anything. I considered my decision a masterstroke. I loathed dresses. At ten years old, dresses cramped my style at recess – back when recess still held significance, and when I still had friends to play with, friends who’d drop me ruthlessly if I couldn’t keep up. Dresses three days a week already seemed a generous compromise, surely sufficient to appease God.

God, perhaps. But Dad’s expectations, unfortunately, exceeded those of the Almighty. His face darkened, and I swiftly surrendered Tuesdays and Thursdays as well, lest he decide to escort me all the way to the playground – a place that mattered less with every step we took.

“Absolutely,” I reassured him, obedient and earnest. “Dresses it will be.”

I hope I savored that last recess in pants: climbing, cartwheeling, running wild. I hope I wrung every ounce of freedom from that final day. Carpe diem, and all that. But I have no recollection – nothing at all past the moment Dad turned around and left me standing there, aware again, sharply, that things had irreversibly shifted. I doubt it, though. Childhood epiphanies tend to occur retrospectively, inconveniently.

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These are the things I think about while glaring at the squirrels – creatures blissfully unconcerned with their eternal souls or what attire might grant entry to paradise.

Mostly, the larger squirrels have commandeered our backyard these days. Their population surge coincided suspiciously with our city’s crackdown on outdoor cats. Apparently, letting your feline roam free will now incur a hefty fine. Even cat ownership requires a license. I’m fascinated by this notion: we’ve deemed pets license-worthy, yet babies – a decidedly riskier venture, or at least a bigger drain on your wallet – remain blissfully unregulated.

Once, squirrel sightings sparked such excitement at breakfast I’d shout to the children, “Look! A squirrel!” But invariably it would vanish before all three could look, inevitably provoking jealous tears and ferocious debates about fairness. My mother’s advice – to simply ignore unrest – is sensible. I reject this wisdom. Instead, I continue to puzzle through their conflicts, hoping to discover a hidden knack for diplomacy I clearly do not possess.

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Our backyard seemed ideal when we moved here, backing onto a small park perfect for cartwheels and other blissful visions of free-range parenting. Yet the lush green vista, upon closer inspection, revealed itself as an unofficial dog latrine. My fantasies of barefoot childhood abandon dissolved abruptly into visions of parasites and veterinary bills. And while I envy the robust, outdoorsy dog owners I see out the kitchen window, who gather each morning at seven a.m., coffee steaming from their stainless-steel mugs, bundled cheerfully in performance outerwear, I’m not fooled. I know perfectly well snow is trickling down someone’s ankle right now, promising a damp discomfort lasting until lunchtime. Someone else has just spilled coffee down their overpriced jacket, already calculating the tedious laundering and careful drying required for duck-filled down.

The meticulously landscaped backyard we inherited is our version of a cottage, except I never have to endure the indignity of seasonal grocery runs or sorting clothes for here and there. I sleep comfortably in my own bed, because – as any mother of three knows – vacations without Ritz-level amenities are misnamed.

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Early one summer, in the throes of spring and energy, and the blissful happiness that settled on me that people from warm climates simply cannot understand, when the sun finally shed heat and the air smelled fresh, I picked up patio lights on discount from Costco. You know the kind: charming, naked Edison bulbs hanging invitingly over every restaurant patio in North America. I envisioned a breezy afternoon project, innocent and delightful, stringing lights high in the trees.

Some people don’t like Costco. They complain about the warehouse-like setting, the long lines to check-out. They say things like, I don’t need that much stuff, dismissing those of us who do want that much stuff. I revel in buying laundry detergent and toilet paper in large quantities, knowing both that I’m paying less than I would at a more comfortable grocery store with mood lighting and Starbucks; also, that if something happens, we will be well set.

Another thing I like about Costco is the quality of people who shop there. The fact that there is a fee ensures that the bar has been set. Not too high, mind you. This isn’t a black AmEx card or a club membership requiring vetting and votes. I spent so long not allowed to participate in the everyday, and then even longer feeling guilty about enjoying experiencing the everyday. I appreciate being one of them now in my very own black leggings like every other mom.

The lights needed to be hung high and we’ve learned our lessons in terms of home maintenance (realizing it is neither of our callings).

Enter Mike, our handyman. Mike and I took the lights out of the box. They were even better and more perfect in my hands than I’d hoped, heavy-duty and solid. In my neck of the woods, things need to be able to withstand the elements. These lights needed to be the North Face of lights. No, the Canada Goose.

Mike dutifully admired them with me then said Kay, well, I’ll start putting these up.

“Instructions much?” I replied, as I skimmed instructions that said things like purchase airplane wire for hanging and secure hooks for attachment and check electricity for load. It became clear that Mike and I would require the assistance of electricians to ensure that once up, the lights would turn on.

The electrician brought his guys over and a few thousand or so dollars later I had four working, certified-safe, grounded plug-ins in my backyard. This was satisfying, but not as satisfying as, say, a summer holiday or the new king-sized mattress I’d been craving and now could not afford.

Mike came back and did a lot of sighing while measuring and lugging supplies and figuring things out on a piece of paper. I provided coffee and Canadian iced tea and a listening ear. He’s going through some shit in his personal life, and listening is part of the deal. It’s nice. I find him relaxing. He isn’t melodramatic like some contractors we’ve had, nor has he ever slapped me on the ass like one did after opening my fridge and downing the half can of white wine I’d left on a shelf. Apparently, he thought it was going to be Red Bull, and I was distracted by explaining that I don’t drink Red Bull, instead of asking how it happened that he would so casually open the fridge and drink opened drinks without asking while I watched.

Mike hung the lights exactly as requested: diagonally, perfectly crossing over the swimming pool.

I know.

Now it seems obvious, but at the time, neither of us considered heavy-duty bulbs suspended above open water as an ill-advised decision. After consulting his electrical-engineer son, Mike developed doubts. Pleading, bargaining, and a secondary opinion from the electrician did nothing to alter the verdict: an emphatic no-go.

The lights came down. I sulked. Mike rehung them safely among the evergreens – the very same pines whose needles mercilessly puncture children’s feet and clog the pool filter, yet which I stubbornly protect against all sensible advice. Naturally, Mike billed me twice.

And when at last I admired those lovely, expensive bulbs twinkling gently in the trees – savoring the glow even from indoors – I forgave all debts and worries.

Until the children brought me a solitary bulb they’d found abandoned near their playhouse, mangled.

Not sliced. Chewed.

I determined I needed a gun, and on Mother’s Day I realized that my husband truly loves me. Along with the beautifully handmade cards I cherish, my people gifted me a bubble-gum pink Daisy BB gun with matching pink eye-protection glasses. We had my family over for a barbeque by the pool, and of course my husband and my youngest brother set up the target that came with the gun, stapling it to a tree. It speaks volumes, I’m sure, that I was more concerned about the staples in the tree than the potential harm I planned to inflict on the squirrels.

I was also concerned, as I perused the instructions that came with the gun, about the advice to ensure that you are set back quite some distance from the target.

I voiced my worries, albeit mildly. They ignored me. I saw flashes of a younger Jon, the brother I remember who went at life wild with abandon, his daredevil spirit some reflection of oh, I don’t know, how he was raised.

They shot at the tree and immediately the BB bounced back. Hard. Hard enough to take an eye out, I thought, so I put the gun away in the safest place I could think of, which was the cupboard above the washer where the laundry detergent is.

I bided my time, coating the yard instead with powdered animal deterrent. As I choked on hot pepper dust I imagined hanging a dead squirrel by its tail on the back fence as a warning – or maybe, if the fur was soft, I’d have it made into a little hat.

Finally, with everyone out of the house, I waited for a squirrel to appear. After ten seconds one did, perfectly fat and fluffy. I aimed at his haunches and squeezed the trigger an by damn if I didn’t get the sucker in the meaty part of his thigh. He jumped up and tore off. The feelings that rushed through me were intense. Pride, for a job well done. Amazement, at my obvious skill. The realization that in the event of an apocalypse, I was obviously well positioned to shoot backyard wildlife for the terrible stews we would choke down after finishing all the canned goods. I imagine, that if this time of catastrophe arrives, my children will complain much as they do now. Squirrel is disgusting, they will say. Can’t you get a rabbit?

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These squirrels continue to gnaw lights and burrow loudly into our chimney every autumn, prompting the local pest control to recommend ABBA’s greatest hits as effective deterrent. Yes, my wireless speaker blasts 'Mamma Mia' at high volume through the chimney, until the squirrels hate ABBA as passionately as I now do, and they leave. They dig up my planters, scatter dirt and foliage, and undoubtedly defecate where my barefoot children unknowingly step. Worst of all, they leave behind peanuts, deposited by kindly neighbors who imagine charming wildlife, unaware they’re endangering my kids’ anaphylactic playmates.

Still, I find solace in small rebellions against my childhood. I joyfully scrutinise Costco for fun household projects, proudly in my overpriced black leggings; both my joy and those leggings luxuriously worldly, deliciously formerly forbidden. I’ve joined the ranks of those who sip coffee and enjoy the view, calmly ignoring the squirrels, safely on the other side of the glass.

Until one inevitably tries my patience again. Life, like squirrels, never respects the tidy boundaries we've built. Maybe we're all forever negotiating with small invasions, setting traps and hanging lights, praying something lovely will remain intact after all the chewing stops.