Killer in his golden years

The bunny vigil

 

The squirrel ran toward me, catching me off-guard as I potted some new annuals. 

When did a squirrel ever act so familiar? Not in this yard. This newcomer was half the size of the other golden squirrels that roamed the yard, a young squirrel possibly on an early voyage outside the nests wedged high in crooks of the neighborhood trees. The nest gave it no instinct for the orange and white bulk shuddering behind a row of pots. I talked at the squirrel for a few seconds, too accustomed to the large squirrels springing to the fence tops whenever I came too close. 

While the young squirrel paused a few feet from me, instinct took over - the killer pounced. Cats often lose battles with squirrels. Sharp squirrel nails are a solid defense. But this squirrel had no instinct for defense. Percy clearly had no concerns. He backed the squirrel into a concrete gutter before pinning it to the ground.

The trophy room

A flurry of movement followed, then a noise new to me. The young rodent squealed. It was the squeal of the naïve, squeal of a baby out of the nest, the squeal of panic. I can still hear the noise. I could not escape that cry, the noise of a creature realizing it might have made a fatal mistake. I don’t particularly like squirrels – these golden squirrels are non-native and share the trees with Abert’s black squirrels, who are native and more intriguing with their black fur and tufted ears. But I wasn’t about to let Percy murder one. 

In winter he struck easy prey. He killed a half-frozen door mouse during the coldest week of the year, when the rodents huddled against the house for warmth. That left me with an ugly feeling. Sure, cats kill, they cannot outstrip their instincts but I didn’t want to see an old cat beating prey too cold to flee. If they ever got into the house, Percy had carte blanche – not when the mice huddled against the house for warmth. 

It seemed like a cheap kill, but predators kill babies and elderly prey. But there’s no code of honor for house cats. 

This squirrel had no clue how to defend itself. I nudge Percy hard with my foot and the squirrel clumsily scrambled upward into the cedar. It was still learning to climb, and Percy senses its unease. I would not let this continue. I ran Percy inside. Did sense some contrition? He seemed to bow his head, reflecting on grasping the weakest squirrel from the nest. Whatever I sensed faded in seconds as he strode to the porch door again. Then he held vigil at the base of the tree for 20 minutes. So we waited.

The young squirrel hid in the cedar, not familiar with the easy escape the roof offered – every larger squirrel had taken that route to avoid the cat. Clearly it had little experience with climbing – it rambled onto branches and nearly tumbled off the ends, scampering too fast when too little branch remained. Finally it left the tree, following a parent down the trunk into the yard. Hopefully the young squirrel learned a lesson about my yard. 

On a dry spot in the bushes, Percy slept, a seemingly unaware pile of fur and fat still ready to pounce at any random rustle. Maybe the young squirrel will never again tread so close to me. At least it escaped death at the jaws of Percy.

 The squirrels stayed atop the fences and freely roamed the roof. Those standoffs ended quickly after the incident. Not that Percy’s killing desire would ebb. He sat in the garden patch at the rear of the yard, near a hole in the lower fence blocked by some lattice. Every day he sat for hours, eyes trained on the hole. A week later, Percy comes to the porch door with a baby rabbit in his mouth. I got him to release it.

Fortunately Percy had not delivered a killing bite. The baby bunny darted through a series of fences to safety in the neighbor’s cat-less yard. For two weeks, the vigil went on. He would not leave that spot, some nights not until twilight, then he would return when dawn broke. I tried to haze him away, but he always returned. 

Then came a Thursday morning when the vigil broke. Percy seemed agitated. He kept running up to the door, running in then out again. Finally I decided to replace some of the cardboard “beds” in the bushes when I found his trophy. On the cardboard lied a freshly dead rabbit. He was agitated because he wanted me to see what he had done.

Around its neck, the moistened fur showed Percy’s killing stroke. He broke its neck with his jaws. I couldn’t find a trace of blood. The rabbit was still warm, its eyes freshly glazed with that unmistakable lifeless look. 

In a way, I felt relieved. Percy would not give up until he got his rabbit, and this cycle would repeat till the inevitable happened. He delivered a surgical death, a bite that pulled the life out of a young rabbit. 

I can hope he doesn’t kill again. But his string of recent successes at age 15 make it unlikely he will stop going for throats when the chance approaches.