Jeremy Clarke
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I, too, put peanuts out in hanging feeders for the birds. Regular visitors include a sleek nuthatch and a fugitive woodpecker. The principal nuisance is a sparrowhawk, whose depredations are shockingly violent but fortunately rare. Lately, however, a solitary grey squirrel has learnt how to dismantle one of the feeders and empty the peanuts. If I see it, I go out and ask it what the hell it thinks it’s doing. It just sits there looking sweetly at me. I also own a .22 air rifle, bought many years ago as a birthday present for my son. He had no enthusiasm for it, however, but I keep it still in the back of a cupboard. After the carol service, I went home and got out the gun, gave it a good oiling, and leant it beside the back door.
Next morning there was this squirrel again, gorging on my nuts. I picked up the airgun, cocked the barrel, put in a pellet, closed the barrel, returned the safety catch, and opened the back door. From five yards away the squirrel looked at me with small interest, as if a famously mediocre after-dinner speaker had been announced. He didn’t even stop chewing. I raised the gun and framed the top of his furry little head within the sights.
But I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. My conscience simply refused to believe the Christian squirrel slayer’s claims. I wanted to. I would have been delighted to. But that business with the rabbit told me that shooting animals with an airgun was in reality a messier business than she made out. I fired the pellet into the canopy of the eucalyptus tree and laid the gun aside. The shameless beggar didn’t even flinch at the report; it just went on calmly eating.
Later that day my grandson came over to be entertained. A week short of his third birthday, he was now old enough to learn how to shoot, I decided. It was a valuable skill he was probably going to need at some stage, and sooner than we think. I stood an empty spaghetti tin on the garden table and we practised shooting at it from five yards. Each shot was a joint effort. I squatted behind my grandson and lined the gun up, and he pulled the trigger with all his might using both hands.
We scored a bull’s-eye first go. I think the lead pellet’s invisible and dramatic effect on the tin was a revelation that both appalled and excited him. When I retrieved the fallen tin and examined the damage, I was surprised too. The pellet had punched a hole right through the tin. It had gone in through one side and come out the other. I didn’t remember the airgun being as powerful as that. Maybe that woman had been telling the unvarnished truth after all, and squirrels are indeed potable with a .22.
The next day the squirrel was back on my nuts again. This time, when I’d framed the top of his little grey head in my sights, I squeezed the trigger. Result: ghastly. Think of the finale of a floor gymnastics display. Think of a second shot. Then a third. Then a fourth. Then a fifth. If I say that it would have been a kindness to have finished it off by stamping on it, except I had my carpet slippers on, that might give you some idea of how inadequate my air rifle was. To anyone wondering how to tackle the problem of squirrels on their nut feeders, I say therefore: best rule out the airgun. I’ve heard since that the chilli powder option works quite well. Or get a .410.
Merry Christmas.
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