When Squirrels Go Bad

As much as I love the warm, rich green of Toronto in the summer, there is a different kind of beauty in its cold, grey winter. The trees, huge skeletons now, sway in the wind and reach for the distant sun. And in doing so, reveal small homes that had been hidden all summer.


This nest is in the upper branches of our Norway Maple. It's an invasive species that was planted throughout Toronto in past decades, making a beautful canopy but also sending roots everywhere, invading sewer lines and making life difficult for plants that try to share their space. Yet we had some success with a small raised bed that we built on the front lawn in the tree's shadow, and have decided to expand it this summer. Yesterday I went out to measure the front lawn, so that I can spend the next few weeks drawing a plan and deciding what will go well in the new bed. We're going to square out the triangle, make it a bit deeper and pull it out more towards the front of the yard.


I paused to look up into the old tree and all its signs of life -- the nest, woodpecker holes, warty little branches, grooves in the bark where nuthatches root around, even the little ledge left by a pruning that makes a frequent sunning or rest spot for the sweet little squirrels. This tree is old and battered and probably doesn't have a long life left, but it sure serves a purpose.


I bent back over to my labour when all of a sudden there was a scrabbling noise and a shower of sharp bark chips on my head. And again.

Squirrels. Not cute.

Not cute at all.