Our next door neighbor has rigged a squirrel-feeding ledge outside their window. I wonder if squirrels ever get tired of nuts and acorns. Do you think they hoard the chesnuts for little squirrel Easters?
I hate to tell you all, but squirrel-hunting season in Ohio ended a while ago. I know what you're thinking: awww, shoot (he he). It never occured to me that anyone would hunt squirrels, but it seems that squirrel-hunting is a time-honored American rite of passage: proud fathers take their sons out to, for the first time, learn them the art of hunting before they graduate to deer and such.
I'm not terribly squeamish about eating meat (I do like dinuguan, remember) but I'm not sure that I could bring myself to eat squirrel. Well, maybe I could. But then, I'm still trying to psych myself into buying rabbit at the West Side Market. I always think to myself that this week is the week I finally try it, but then I get a look at the whole skinned carcass, with its head and all, and I think of Watership Down, and my resolve quails.
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