As I write this, somewhere, just to my right, he (or she) is sleeping. It’s 5:15 a.m. and he’s been sleeping in lately. Last night he didn’t get home until almost five, after dark at this time of year. I heard the rattle. Then the scratching. Then the pitter patter of little feet. He settled in quickly and in no time as curled up, sound asleep.
I want him gone.
He’s a red squirrel, and he’s taken up residence in the ceiling of my study. The study is in the rear of the ell of our 1820s house and his entrance, I believe, is near the peak of the gable end, just above the hook for a bird feeder. He hasn’t bothered with the feeders; the woods behind the house bore a bumper crop of ash seeds and acorns this fall. He feeds during the day, comes in and sleeps it off. But when he’s not sleeping, he’s chewing beams, sprinting down paths between the ceiling joists, scratching loud enough to wake people sleeping in the bedrooms below.Worst of all, he may be chewing electrical wiring.
Time for him to go.
Plan A: I have a Havahart trap. That will go out by the birdfeeders, in hopes that I catch the right red squirrel. I’ll probably just have to catch them all, transport them to our version of 19th century Australia. Vassalboro.
Plan B. Rat traps kill red squirrels as well. They worked when the squirrels invaded our shed a few years back, but it was messy. This battle isn’t for the faint of heart.
Plan C. The .22 rifle. Trick is to slow them down enough (getting a bag of squirrels for dinner in the olden days wasn’t as easy as it sounds). If I can get him to come to the feeders, there’s a clean shot from my study window. As in most wars, it’s nothing personal, as my fictional soldier friend Clair would say. One of us is just in the wrong place at the wrong time. 
In PORT CITY SHAKEDOWN, the first Brandon Blake novel, Brandon gets a full dose of bad guys. A brawl in a funeral home introduces him to Joel Fuller, a sociopathic hustler. Fuller is fresh out of jail and determined to take Brandon out—after Fuller and his sidekick Kelvin shake him down.
Rocky isn’t a tough guy. He’s a skinny little kid with crooked glasses, and he shouldn’t be homeless in Portland, Maine. When McMorrow and Roxanne pluck him from under the stomping feet of a gang of street kids, Rocky latches onto McMorrow–and drags him into a world of murder, both old and new. Why is McMorrow protecting Rocky? The cops want to know. Why is Rocky on the run? McMorrow wants to know. Why does death follow in Rocky’s wake? Jack and Roxanne need to find out before they’re added to the list. 
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Love it. Seems like Danforth might also be a good spot for the leaving of squirrels. Not so much downunder as upabove. There’s a lovely place there called Cornerstone Inn (if one can stomach the not-so-recommended drive from the interstate) where a squirrel, red or otherwise, might find things quite cozy.
We must have a relative of yours in our ceiling! Did you get the squirrel? I would be damn impressed if you could hit it with a .22. Stick the cat up there. Actually, I hear that squirrels do not like light so you can put a light up there to get it out and then find where the hole is and plug it up. Or a radio and turn it to really bad talk radio.