"I don't always chase squirrels. . .oh, wait. . .I do."
– The most interesting dog in the world

I've mentioned the marketing battle waged between the bird feeder makers and squirrels. Making what passes as a "pretty" bird feeder that keeps the squirrels out must be big business.
Here's the thing, it's just easier to call it a critter feeder and leave the squirrel proof claim off. As far as I can tell even the priciest tool feeds not only the birds, but squirrels, field mice, voles, raccoons, possums, whatever else wanders through. I've come to terms with squirrel-proof being a suggestion rather than a prediction.
One who has not come to terms with this is Wilson the Amazing Border Collie. We have spent the last few days running in and out through the frigid cold to chase squirrels away. The little sparrows, the bluejays, the cardinals, and even the hated grackles are permitted to chow down in and around the bird feeder. However, the moment a squirrel makes their way into the yard, Wilson will bolt up from a sunbeam and stare out the door. I will let him out, the squirrel will jump into the tree, Wilson will grab something and growl/shake it, sniff around, and come back inside.
This can go on what one can only assume to be forever. None of the three parties tire of the event. When the door opens the squirrel bolts, a dozen new birds flock to the feeder, the dog runs around, dog goes inside, squirrel returns, birds disappear. On and on.
I'm telling you this because right now I am looking at Wilson on the patio stoop staring at the bird feeder. The squirrel is perched on top and has turned its back to the dog. This squirrel is fat. Savvy. Not its first rodeo. It's been tormenting Wilson for the better part of the morning. I think Wilson is about to give up. He needs a little help.
The patio door is not silent. Pulling down on the knob/handle makes a clicking noise like a bank vault being opened, pins and rods falling into place. I open it, the squirrel jumps. I close it, the squirrel jumps again. Wilson is now re-engaged and looks at me as if to say, "did-you-see-that?-do-it-again!" in his Scottish accent. We now open and close the door over and over again, watching the squirrel go from feeder to tree to fence into the neighbors yard. I keep the door flapping, sounding the house door chime again and again, bringing the house temperature down a dozen degrees with my windmilling. The squirrel is on the run.
"What in the world are you doing?" says a voice behind me. It's my lovely bride, wrapping herself in a blanket, looking and sounding very judgemental.
"Nothing," I say, letting the dog in. "Just playing with Wilson."
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