Ownership

There was an ant on the counter. For a moment he watched it, rushing around apparently without any plan or order in its search. Then the ant found a crumb from his sandwich and stopped. He crushed it with his finger. I'll have to get some of those ant traps, he thought. Because there's never just one. And if you don't get them right away they just keep coming.

He grabbed half of his sandwich and took it outside with him. His back yard was small, but his wife had a nice flower garden there and the tall wooden fence provided privacy. Shading his eyes, he peered up near the roof. Sure enough, the limbs of the neighbors' tree were touching his house, right where they'd gotten in. He'd have to cut that back too. Or the squirrels would just keep coming. The traps in the attic had done the trick--he found the second one this morning, legs and tail straight out, stiff as a board. Then a little patch work and the hole was closed. But if he didn't cut back those limbs, they'd be back.

Gnawing. Everyone thought squirrels were so cute, sitting on a branch nibbling a nut, flicking their fluffy tails in contentment. But the gnawing wasn't cute. It certainly wasn't the sound of contentment. And those things could gnaw through almost anything--every garbage can on the block had a squirrel hole through the lid, and if they wanted into a house, they just chewed themselves a door. That's how he knew they were in his house now, he'd heard the gnawing. At first he'd thought it was mice. But he found them soon enough. He couldn't sleep with that gnawing in his house.

Of course you had to stop them right away or they would do a lot of damage. Then they would be making more cute little squirrels, and the place would be overrun. You had to stay alert; you had to keep fighting. And if it wasn't squirrels, it was mice. Or ants. Always something trying to get in, trying to move into his house, eat his food, and tearing the whole place down in the process. Thieves, really. Like those young thugs he sometimes heard prowling the alley late at night. They didn't just steal, they had to destroy--break in, then throw things around till they found what they wanted, costing people more by the damage they did than by what they took. He'd seen it again and again. But his place was secure, he made sure of that. No one got in--not even a squirrel--without him knowing about it. And he had something in the drawer beside his bed to stop any intruder that stepped foot in his house.

That gutter looks a little rusty, though. He'd have to fix that right away, and repaint it. And the brickwork really needed tuckpointing again. If you let the rust get started, or the mortar erode too much, things went downhill fast and whole sections had to be replaced. You had to stay on top of it. If you didn't, in no time you wouldn't have anything left. Rust, erosion, decay. It kept him busy all right, but he knew what to look for and he didn't let anything go, so his place was in good shape. He wished his body was in such good shape. The heartburn was getting worse. And he couldn't go up the ladder like he could when he was younger, with a full five-gallon bucket in each hand. It was getting harder now. He could definitely feel it. But that gutter did need to be fixed.

He went in to get the rest of his sandwich and came out again to take another look. The problem was that he was slowing down, but the gutters kept right on rusting and the squirrels kept gnawing at their same frantic pace. It kept getting harder for him, but they never seemed to get tired. And even if he stopped them dead, more showed up. It never ended. They just kept coming.

Taking a bite, he looked up. It looked higher than it used to. But he couldn't let that go; he had to take care of that rust. Right away. Tomorrow. Unnh, there it is again--where's my antacid? He started towards the door, then stopped and rubbed his shoulder. Hmm. I must have strained something climbing into the attic...

A mockingbird balanced on a thin branch of the neighbor's tree, showing off its fine vocal abilities. The song went on and on. Below, his wife's patch of tiger lilies were in fiery bloom.

And down in the grass, an ant crawled onto his finger, paused, then rushed on without any apparent plan. But the finger didn't move. It was his other hand that twitched. And twitched again. Then the sandwich came free and the squirrel bounded away with it.