Hayjax is in Nottingham

Growing up in Vancouver, I got used to squirrels being the outdoor version of a family pet.  Fluffy and bright-eyed, their livelihood pretty much consists of hanging around looking cute until someone gave them a nut.  Their little, squirrel-sized bag of tricks includes standing up on their hind legs and making beggy paws, climbing up your pants-leg to get to the hidden peanut cache in your pocket, and singing “On the Good Ship Lollipop” in a lisping falsetto.   They are totally domesticated, fat little mooches.

Because I never lived anywhere but Vancouver, I figured squirrels worldwide were equally docile and cuddly.  I walked among Vancouver’s animal kingdom like Tarzan, assuming the furry inhabitants would dance for my amusement as long as I had a peanut or, in cases where I had to negotiate with raccoons, a French fry on my person to clinch the deal.

I assumed wrong.  Nottingham squirrels do not sing any variety of Shirley Temple tune, not even for a can of premium macadamias.  They are wild, sinewy, feral beasts; a blur of teeth and claws as they scramble up and down tree trunks and swing from overhead branches like a marauding gang of hairy killer acrobats.  The foliage is alive with their wild shrieking and chattering.  If I hid a peanut in my pocket, I would lose a chunk of thigh.

So I just want to say a special thank-you to all the Japanese tourists and dotty old West End ladies whose patient and selfless nut-giving over the years has transformed our squirrels into pampered little plush toys.  To hell with the delicate balance of nature; having seen what happens when we leave it alone, I totally endorse human interference.