The Spurious Scurrilous Scurril.

domesticated flying squirrel

Monday, our Chris Knopf persuasively wrote The Irresistible Sciurus carolinensis, i.e, the grey squirrel. I'm here today with a rebuttal. Much like Miss Bubbles LaFerne, squirrels are cute cuddly…

Homewreckers!

Yep. Wild squirrels let me pet them and I’ve had flying squirrels as pets– they’re small, like gerbils. I’ve met black squirrels, white squirrels, and red squirrels.

But at the moment, I’m leaning toward the rats-with-furry-tails philosophy. The Florida floods following Hurricane Ian persuaded rodents of all sorts to seek higher ground. In my area, the August Council of Rodent Emigration (ACRE) decided that meant Leigh’s attic.

Soffits, we laugh at you! Sciurus carolinensis moved in and never left. Invasive greys are known for driving red squirrels out of their traditional habitats. I know that feeling. They are…

black squirrel

Hometakers!

They refused rat bait (not intended for squirrels) and they discovered Valentine’s cockatoo food suited them quite nicely: sunflowers and salads and fancy nuts, thank you very much. During the recent cold snap– okay, what passes for a cold snap in Florida– the squirrel delegation decided they need not go out when fresh food is delivered downstairs.

Quite the overstayed guests, they are rude little…

Homemakers! (aka Make Themselves at Home)

New drywall– the gypsum board to replace that damaged in Hurricane Ian’s wake– represents a small barrier. The furballs gnaw windows above the fireplace to see what’s going on. The scene resembles one of those old gothic movies where spirits lean out of picture frames. That’s our squirrels, resting their elbows on their most recent window-to-the-world, wondering why Miss M is hurling pots and pans and curses at them. But once upon a time…

white squirrel

Home Fries!

Before Florida, I lived in a state forest in Minnesota. Lots of wildlife, lots of squirrels. Not by coincidence, the electrical power would sometimes go boom with an explosion like a shotgun blast.

The house had its own transformer high on a utility pole. You may have noticed squirrels like to climb, and the pole was no exception. From time to time, Squeaky or Squiffy or Squirmy's curiosity would come to the fore. One or another would climb on the transformer, shorting it out and blowing the fuse with a bang heard ’round the forest. Lois at the electric company would exclaim, “Glory be. Sounds like Leigh’s transformer blew again. Earl, you up for the trip?”

As a result of tripping the fuse link, Squiffy or Squirmy or Squeaky would be blown away, figuratively and literally. Funeral arrangements occurred the next day. Furry families requested sunflower seeds in lieu of sunflowers.

red squirrel

Home Savers!

After transformer blasts occurred a few times, I told the company’s lineman these untenable squirrel blasts were expensive for the electric company, the squirrel population, and me in the middle of critical lines of code on my computer.

“Oh,” Earl said. “Why don’t you request a squirrel sleeve?”

“Why has no one mentioned this?” I said. “What’s a squirrel sleeve?”

The device, as you might surmise, was a 20-inch / 50cm length of galvanized sheet metal wrapped high around the utility pole. Squirrels might ascend to the sleeve, but not climb past its slippery surface. No more Spiffys or Squiffys or Rocky Js would die on my watch.

My thoughtfulness won numerous Squirrelman of the Year awards, whereupon rodents everywhere figured I’d welcome them to my house and hearth.

grey squirrel

Homebody!

I concede a major point to Chris: If I could reincarnate as any karmic wheel-of-life creature, a squirrel would make a good candidate. Sure, they work hard, but the little acrobats play hard too, scampering and teasing, friends-with-benefits flirting and playing you-can’t catch-me tag.

They are smart and wily. Defeated homeowners have posted videos of incredible obstacle courses originally intended to keep the little buggers out of bird feeders.

Score:    Squirrels 137,528    Humans 0

Moreover, naturalists tell us squirrels are the only mammal that can survive a drop from any height. When they spread their limbs, loose skin of the abdomen flattens just enough to resemble a wing suit, letting them parachute safely to a landing. Better than a flat cat! How cool is that!

Rocky J Squirrel
© Geico, Jay Ward Prod. et al

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But chewing the wiring in someone’s old house?

Nuts to that.

So…

Any chance your karmic lineage includes a squirrel?

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wingsuit human flying squirrel © Squirrel.ws

Barnyard Justice

    Beastly behavior might end up in court.

    Beginning in the Middle Ages and extending through the 18^th century, many European nations believed that animals could commit crimes. I’m not talking about soiling the rug or barking after midnight. Pigs, dogs, rats, and other creatures might be accused of penal law violations. There were several sources for the belief in animal culpability. Chiefly, the Hebrew Bible supported the idea. In Exodus 21:28, it is written that "[w]hen an ox gores a man or a woman to death the ox shall be stoned, and its flesh not eaten." Additionally, medieval cosmology established a great chain of being. Society was hierarchical. Atop the ladder sat God, followed on the lower rungs by heavenly hosts. Below them, God’s representatives in church and state—the priests and king rested. Nobles, freemen, and serfs usually complete our view of the ladder. The hierarchy, however, did not stop there. Primates, quadrupeds, lower animals, and vermin were followed by plants in the great chain of being. Unique among the earthly species, humans were made in the image of God. They alone had the opportunity to join the divinity in the next world. Because each occupant of a rung had the same essence, to a greater or lesser degree, moral agency extended down the ladder.

            Both secular and religious authorities agreed on the need to prosecute certain animals in courtrooms and, as appropriate, to punish them for offenses. The reasoning behind these prosecutions varied. Some saw animals as sentient beings who had conscious thoughts. They could scheme and behave like humans. (Although from a different time, we might remember Aesop. He famously crafted a bundle of tales about anthropomorphic beasts of farm and forest.) Other thinkers supported animal trials out of retribution and a need to extract society's measured response to wrongdoing. The absence of legal intent did not necessarily free the animal from criminal liability or consequence. Still others saw a threat to social order by not acting. A goring ox was not executed because it was morally guilty. These thinkers recognized that oxen do what oxen do. As a lower animal, however, it had killed a higher animal. The ox threatened to upset the divinely ordered hierarchy of God’s creation. Finally, some, like Thomas Aquinas, reasoned that the lower animals are God’s creatures. He uses them for his purposes. To punish or curse them for their actions would be blasphemy. Offending animals, he argued, therefore, must be agents of Satan. It was widely understood that the Devil frequently used irrational and simple creatures to the detriment of humans. The disposition of the cases then must not be seen as punishing the animals but as hurling them at Satan. Think of the demon-inhabited pigs in the Book of Matthew, Chapter 8. They ran off a cliff into the sea and drowned. The agent of evil needed to be destroyed not for the criminal act but rather to resist the Great Tempter.

            Whether criminally culpable or demon-possessed, animals deemed guilty/cursed were destroyed. The meat could not be salvaged. Neither the beast nor the owner fared well under the system. Far better, I suppose, when a non-domesticated animal stood accused. Nobody loses when a mosquito gets its due.

            Courts, both secular and ecclesiastical, developed procedures for the trials of animals. A distinction was drawn between the capital trials by secular courts of offending domestic animals (Thierstrafen) and judicial proceedings undertaken in ecclesiastical courts against vermin for damage (Thierprocesse). Although the cases had non-traditional defendants, the courts took the proceedings very seriously.

            As often happens, while looking for something else, I stumbled into a 1906 book, The Criminal Prosecution and Capital Punishment of Animals by E.P. Evans. He documents the medieval belief in the appropriateness of the criminal prosecution of animals. Evans, in particular, notes the work of Bartholomé Chassenée, a 16^th-century French jurist. Chassenée wrote a treatise describing his efforts to defend accused beasts. Evans' collection of animal trials is a fascinating world to visit. 

        The November/December issue of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine includes my story, “A Rat Tale,” the second story about the animal avocat, Bernard de Vallenchin. The tale is based loosely on a Chassenée trial. Both Valenchin and Chassenée work on behalf of the lowly rat. It was tempting to get lost in the weeds when telling the story. Who, after all, doesn't want the protagonist to drop a casual aside about the excommunication of moles in the Valley of Aosta, Italy, in the year 824. I tried to strike a balance. The goal was to offer a compelling courtroom drama. I also wanted to provide a few odd, historical details.  I hope that a reader finishes the tale entertained and interested in this jurisprudential footnote.

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            If you don't like the story, punish my dog.

            (I'll be traveling on the day this posts. If you comment, I apologize for not getting back to you promptly.) 

            Until next time. 

 

True Political Animals

So much about politics divides our nation these days, but here is something I think we all can agree on: the death last week of the mayor of Talkeetna, Alaska, is a loss to us all.
You see, Talkeetna (two hours north of Anchorage, population less than 900) has for twenty years had the same mayor: Stubbs the orange tabby. Stubbs supposedly began his political career as a write-in candidate who garnered more votes than any of the humans on the ballot. He thereafter won several uncontested elections over the years. He even survived what's been billed an assassination attempt by a stray dog in 2013. (There's a newspaper in Alaska that claims Stubbs never was elected and his political career is effectively an urban legend, but I like what everyone else is reporting about Stubbs, so screw 'em.)

Anyway, it might seem silly to be sad over a deceased feline I never met--and it might seem sillier that said feline ran a town in Alaska for twenty years--but this cat did something few political candidates seem able to do these days. He brought his town together. Once he was elected, no one ran against him. His constituents actually liked him, and not for what he could do for them. They liked him just for himself. Isn't that refreshing?

Rest in peace, Stubbs.

That's not to say Stubbs accomplished nothing while in office. I understand he helped increase tourism because people wanted to meet him. And I daresay he promoted the idea that you don't have to look--or be--like everyone else in order to succeed, in politics as well as in life. Granted, Stubbs's job was apparently more symbolic than functional, but that makes Stubbs's accomplishments no less valid. So I salute you, Stubbs, for all your success. Thank you for your years of service. And may you rest in peace.

There's more where Stubbs came from

Stubbs was not the first animal elected to office in this country. Here are a few others. (Note: This information was gathered from multiple sources on the Internet. I haven't gone to each town to confirm, but why would anyone make this stuff up?)

In 1981, Bosco, a lab-rottweiler mix, was elected mayor of Sunol, California. He served for thirteen years, dying in office in 1994. His job was described as purely ceremonial, but he still got to be called mayor.

This isn't any of the Henry Clays,
but you get the idea.

In 1986, a political dynasty began in Lajitas, Texas, when Henry Clay, a billy goat, was elected as mayor. Since then Henry Clay Jr. and Henry Clay III have served in the same position.

In 1998, voters in the small town of Rabbit Hash, Kentucky, elected Goofy, a German shepherd, mayor. Goofy was eventually succeeded by Junior, a black lab, who was succeeded by Lucy Lou, a border collie, who remains in office today. Goofy's election stemmed from a fundraiser for a local church. People paid $1 to cast each vote.

In 2011, a cow named April was elected mayor of Eastsound, Washington. After not running for re-election, April was succeeded the next year by Murphy, a Portuguese water dog (like Stubbs, Murphy was a write-in candidate). Other animal mayors of this town have been Granny, a whale; Jack, a golden retriever; and their current mayor, Lewis, a dog (breed unclear). As with other towns with animal mayors, the job in Eastsound is ceremonial, and the voting each year is designed to raise money for charity, but the effect of teaching respect for animals is certainly real.

This isn't Duke, but it looks like him.

And last, but certainly not least, there is Duke, a great Pyrenees, who was elected mayor of Cormorant, Minnesota, in 2014. He has won re-election annually since then, and he continues to serve today.

So, readers, would any of your furry friends make good politicians? Please share. I'm particularly interested in what qualities they have that we all could benefit from. (And no comments, please, about how any animal is better than the politicians we have today. All of these animals have been elected in good-natured environments, and I'd like this blog to remain just as positive.)

And so we don't stray too far from the topic of writing, if you know of any crime short stories or novels involving the election of an animal or an animal serving in office, please share those too.