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Earl Warren and Ike both asked, so how could I turn down duty as squirrel exterminator?


Wednesday, October 8, 2008 5:51 AM PDT

When I was a kid, I was involved in Squirrel War One to save the valley from flooding and the destruction that would have been associated with it; I worked with Dwight Eisenhower killing squirrels.

You may have noticed a tiny bit of self-aggrandizement there, but without Charlie and me, you people would have been up to your pudenda in water. At one point, there was a plague of ground squirrels that were digging into and compromising levees all the way from Terminous to Clements.

The chain of command stopped with Governor Earl Warren and President Eisenhower, but it started with the county, the Reclamation Board, the irrigation districts and lastly, my boss, Charlie.

Our job: Seek and destroy. Our weapons: Shovels, poison grain, tanks of carbon disulfide, damp gunny sacks, a hidden .22 rifle and an occasional kitchen match, which when used, led to a minor disaster every dang time.

Charlie was in his seventies, but don't say anything. He had lied to get the job years before by telling the people in the Reclamation District he was 35 when he was actually 44, so he shoulda been retired for at least five years by the time we met. This was in the late 1940s, so background checks, electronic fingerprinting, DNA tests and carbon dating were not yet in common use.

Heck, Charlie had a shovel that was older than I was at the time, and it wasn't registered with the government as a deadly weapon, either.

Our job: Find a squirrel condominium, check for ancillary entrances, fill same with dirt, pump sufficient carbon disulfide into the hole, cover the hole with more dirt and calmly walk away.

Sometimes the temptation was simply too great, and Charlie would light a cigarette and "accidentally" flip the lit match in the direction of the hole. What happened next depended on a lot of things, but in one instance, the ensuing explosion blew the dirt out of the hole and stampeding, flaming critters lit the field on fire.

That's when the wet gunny sacks came in mighty handy.

I had been in a college play, "The Valiant," and I played the part of the protagonist, a man who was accused of murder who was about to go to the chair.

I still had the blue shirt with the prison numbers on it and I wore it to work. One day we were out killing squirrels, and a farmer from the area meandered over and asked Charlie about me and the shirt I had on.

Charlie told him I was on loan from a prison work team and that it would be better if he didn't talk to me because I had a violent temper and had killed a guy with a shovel.

We worked alone for a long time after that.

The job took nearly all summer because of the length of the assignment, but I was certain about two things.

One: There was no way we even came close to decimating the rodent population of the San Joaquin levee system on the first pass.

Two: The survivors, being rodents and not too far removed from the reproductive diathesis of rabbits, if you know what I mean, it was my feeling we were engaged in the painting of the Bay Bridge to Rodentville, as it were.

What we really needed was a Pied Piper type to walk them little buggers into the river.

When we got to Lockeford, we were pleased because we had completely annihilated the squirrel population of the big oak grove across the highway from Lay's restaurant (Lay's was not there yet, but a little place to stop and eat our lunch was). While we were eating, a small family stopped there and their kids were frolicking in the field on our side of the road. One of the kids stopped, looked across the road and hollered to his dad, "Wow, dad, look at all the squirrels over there."

Charlie sighed, slapped me up side the head, grabbed his bucket and shovel and started back over to the killing fields.

Bob Bader is a local chiropractor and writer. His e-mail address is bobbyo@softcom.net.

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