I found a steer skull earlier this summer. It was in the Montana creek where I caught the rainbow trout that I wrote about in an earlier post. I put it in my car, brought it home with me, and hung it on a nail on a big Douglas Fir in my backyard.

A squirrel lives in this tree. He is the son of Iron Balls McGinty, the previous overlord of the backyard. He does not have a name, as he lacks courage and is less anatomically impressive than his father. For our purposes, let’s call him Sonny. Squirrels are very curious, so Sonny immediately came down and plopped his rump on the skull so he could check it out. After examining it, I saw him take a little nibble. I found this odd and disconcerting, but chalked it up to a fluke or some sort of need to get calcium.

I should disclaim that I am not a person who sees squirrels as fuzzy forest creatures. I see them as Rodentia that got lucky because they have a fuzzy tail. This is a polarizing issue and leaves me at odds with those in the other camp. In fact, the neighbor in the apartment next door feeds them stale hot dog buns out of a custom plastic jug feeder. The crows also like hot dog buns, but they don’t like hard ones. Crows are much smarter than squirrels, so they have solved this problem by dropping them in my bird bath (aka, The Bun Soaker) to soften them a bit before eating them. The water in The Bun Soaker usually looks like frothy wheat beer. I wonder if this is the recipe used by the Lucky Lab? It would explain the hangovers and foul aftertaste of some of their more ill-conceived concoctions. It actually has a nice ring to it. The Lucky Lab presents: Bun Soaker Hefeweizen, a flavor-packed summer extravaganza.

But back to Sonny . . .

Weeks have gone by, and my skull is getting eaten away. I submit to you the following photographic evidence - please note the large gaping hole above the right brow. It’s frustrating to look up each day and see a little bit more of it missing. I wince in pain at the thought. Even if I don’t need it right now, someday I will need it to be fully intact. This is both a superstitious and a practical matter.

Last night Sonny crossed the line. I saw him sampling the tip of the left horn. If I let this continue into the fall or winter, nothing would be left. I had to do something, and as rash as it might seem, I ran outside and clutched madly at my skull and screamed up at Sonny. Before I could stop myself, I grabbed my yellow Dewalt cordless and drilled a hole in it with a sharp quarter inch bit. Then I pounded a nail into the potting barn and hung it there.

It took me a few moments to compose myself, but right away I noticed that all the phantom pains had subsided, and I was resting easy for the first time in weeks. I may have imagined it, but I think I saw the worried furrows in the white brow relax a bit. I gave it a little pat, told it that it would be ok, and walked back inside.

You see, Sonny does not like to walk on the ground. He likes to move from the tree, to the fence, to the next tree, and so on. His beloved father, Iron Balls McGinty, was a brave and ferocious defender of his turf. He wandered anywhere he pleased and kicked all usurpers out of his territory. Sonny just sits up there timidly. He would not dare cross the lawn to the potting barn? Would he? Just because you are paranoid does not mean that the squirrels are not out to get you.

So for now, my skull is safe and happy. If this changes, I will surely keep you apprised, fair readers.

Now I just need to rig up something with The Bun Soaker. Not sure what to do there. I try to change the water a couple times a week. I guess I could put a tap on it and sell pints? Or maybe I could talk my neighbor into putting out home baked hot dog buns, right out of the oven. My mother always baked the most delicious hot dog buns.