Actually, if one of those little rats-with-furry-tails so much as sets a paw in my garden this year, it's gonna be squirrel-melts all 'round at the Sailor's household.

You haven't lived (or died) until you have been to a limousine liberals house for a tofu burger cookout on the 4th of July and actually had people singing Les Marseilles. On the 4th of July. But I had to suck it up for the wifes boss.

Solution:




(PETA be damned.)

Squirrel is bland.  Even the most hardcore mountain folk I know use it only in heavily seasoned chili.

They're natures moving targets.  Just scooping them up with shotguns like you're perpetuating a varmint holocaust is terrible; hundred yard shots with small calibers make an excellent afternoon.  Add some zest to your party with a polymer tip .17hmr or hollow point .223, and you get a little goresplosion to celebrate your good aim. 

Work in some good hash and you'll spend six to eight hours outdoors fascinated at your ability to decide life or death with nothing more than will and three small muscles in your index finger. 

You may or may not receive premature enlightenment.

Or you could hunt them the way we used to on campus: a peanut and a hammer. Just when they reach for the peanut in your hand you bring the hammer down and toss the little bag of bones into your deep pocket.