Christmas lights and the squirrel.

So as I strap on the protective outerwear prior to my mission to take down the Christmas lights, I notice that same damn squirrel is now sitting on the patio, staring at me. I stare back, in one of those blinking contests to see who has the tougher mental fortitude. Squirrel 1, Guitarman 0. Putting some eye drops in to relieve the dryness of not blinking for 47 minutes, I step outside.

"I am still mad at you," says the offending rodent.

"Not the birthday cake thing? How long are you gonna hold that grudge?" I ask.

"As long as it takes, he says. "And don't think I didn't smell that banana bread last week either."

"Look," I says, "food in the house, humans. Food in the yard, birds and squirrels. Got it?"

"Oh I'm sure PETA would love to hear this." With that he whips out his cell phone. He's bluffing, I know he is. He has AT&T, and their coverage is spotty here.

Ignoring him, I start attacking the lights, winding them around my arm to become some massive tangled knot to be dealt with next November. Bits of mud and slush are getting all over my clothes, boots and face. Every so often I throw a backwards glance at the squirrel, who seems to be chatting innocently on the phone.

After about 30 minutes of reaching, bending, winding, and getting stuck by pine needles, I can see the end in sight. But now I am getting nervous. I don't see the squirrel anywhere. Furtively glancing in all directions, I gather up the lights and head for the shed. And that's when he pounced.

As his razor sharp claws dig into the back of my skull, he shrieks "NATURE HATER!" and proceeds to take a bite of my ear. I shriek in white hot agony as I tear at the buck toothed assassin, unable to peel him off.

"I just wanted to take down the damn lights!!" I yell.

"Yea, but this is MY HOUSE out here, BE-OTCH!"

I decide at that moment I have had enough. Pulling at his tail I manage to get it in my mouth, and bite down hard. Now I don't know about most of you, but squirrel tail doesn't taste at all like I expected. In a moment of sheer brilliance, I remember the Crock Pot. Flying into the kitchen the squirrel finally starts to release his grip, perhaps sensing the momentum shift. Alas, he is too late, as I fling him into the Crock Pot, slamming the glass lid down on top of him. The beady little eyes staring at me from inside almost looked sympathetic for an instant. But, regaining my sense of purpose, I turn the knob to slow cook. "Welcome to MY house, be-otch." Squirrel 1, Guitarman 1.

Next week: the tie-breaker.