Nuts

*A re-post from a classic "this really happened...dammit" in December of 2008. I'll get something new up here soon*

*The following is a true story, a few minor embellishments aside. The names of who and where haven't been changed, just left out. Innocence has nothing to do widdit, since all are old enough to be beyond basic innocence. No dolphins, whales, spotted owls or wildebeest were harmed during the following episode; human casualties and dignity are still being assessed*

As a movie character in a popular trilogy was known to opine, "I'm gettin' too old for this sh**".

It was a typical Sunday in my place of employment. Perhaps a little slower than average, what with Christmas but 4 days away. But still, not a bad day shaping up. For the place, there was business; for me, there was relative peace and harmony. Er, besides employees complaining about work, schedules, boredom, weather, in-laws, sub-zero wind chill in the age of alleged global warming, etc., that is.

In fact, I had just completed a quick little investigative matter, and was on my way to 'seal the deal' for someone who hadn't yet realized they'd lost something. And then I got "the call": call Dispatch. NOW.

The whyfer wasn't said; so I told 'em I'd get to 'em in a minute. And stepped out of where I'd been, and right into...the squirreal.

When you suddenly enter an area with people, and they start speaking all at once, and saying things to you that don't make sense, and pointing at your feet, it sometimes takes a second or two to grasp what you've suddenly stepped into, and follow their pointing fingers. When my eyes did so, I saw a fluffy tail go rocketing by where my foot was about to land. Great, I thought to myself, Whozits in the Gift Shop is pranking me with an RC stuffed animal.

That thought died three seconds later, as I watched it perform maneuvers that were much too agile for any RC stuffed anything to do.

We had a squirrel loose. In the building. A building full of people. Luverly.

How it got in wasn't terribly hard to figure out, as would be confirmed later: via the parking structure, and the staircase. Down the staircase, into the hall past the elevators, and right by the Gift Shop, after stopping and flashing the shop attendant Whozits, sending Whozits atop the counter, shrieking (Whozits is afraid of anything rodential). And from there, right in amongst Peopledom.

Granted, PETA folks might argue that we're built where squirrels had, for eons, roamed as masters of the branches. Fine. This is a building, not a tree. And if squirrels were equal to or superior, they'd know how to operate TV remotes, flush toilets and programmable blackberrys, and we'd be foraging for acorns in trees. They ain't and we ain't, 'nuff said.

But apparently, this squirrel sought to take issue with some of the 'nuff said.

I live in the West, and I am a former Iowa farmboy. So it reasonably follows that I'd know a thing or two about herding animals, right? *Buzzzzzzer* Herding a squirrel is like herding cats. Fuggetaboudit. While I tried to steer Rocky back out the way he came in, DOH, there were more of those pesky people in the way, so Rocky went hyah, instead of thyah, and took off down the main staircase like a kid sledding on an icy hill. It took me a couple seconds to realize it, but you see, Rocky had spotted an ally. Or so he thought.

Down the staircase he flew, and into the main lobby where.....*sound of squirrel brakes being applied*, he muttered some deprecation, wheeled right, and took off into another area alive with customers and obstructions (for me and a growing posse, not Rocky). Almost too late Rocky realized that the antlered party at the front door was NOT Bullwinkle, but another of our employees wearing a comical-looking reindeer hat (the look on both Rocky's and the employee's face were akin to "WTF?").

After a short pursuit that looked to be a cross between a barrel and steeple chase, Rocky decided where he'd been was better than where he was, and *zing*, back up those friggin' stairs he went, with the agility of a dwarf gazelle. I followed, with the grace of a three-legged cow, badly in need of oxygen and a Geritol kicker.

Once again at the top, I had a feeble hope of steering Rocky back out the way he came...DOH...onlookers, pointing at the squirrel and laughing at yours truly, were (in)conveniently where I wanted Rocky to run...so he went the other direction, and right for the back of the house, and the restaurant. Which he entered at a dead run, not bothering to pay or even inquire about seating, leaving the hostess with a "uh..isn't that something from the menu?" look on her astonished face (she'd apparently missed the start of this farce).

But ol' Rocky had made a mistake: he ran right into a dead-end, at the back of the restaurant, and took refuge in a corner booth. While he filled out a comment card (complaining about slow waitress service and very unfriendly employees), my gathering posse -- me, two of my staff, three from Engineering, three from Food & Beverage, and a facility shift manager -- took up blocking positions, and we awaited the arrival of our local Animal Control officer. Which turned out to be our local gendarme (the AC officer was unavailable in a most timely fashion...for her).

Our local protect-and-server brought to the table a most impressive array of tools to the task. Not one of which was worth a sh** to live-capture Rocky. Handcuffs? Too big. Pepper spray? Too pervasive. Taser? Probably effective, but we had some onlooking "oh, how cute" folks to contend with, and watching a squirrel electrically explode was probably not good PR. Gun? Too emphatic (not to mention what it'd do to the wall, booth, etc). So I queried our facilities staff to provide us with the equivalent of "Sunday Afternoon at the Improv", and that's what we got: three pair of heavy-duty gloves; one box; one linen bag; and a totally useless grabbing device (used by someone too short or too lazy to reach something, I guess). Thus equipped -- while the shift manager wielded the useless grabbing device like a field marshal's baton -- we formulated a plan.

All the while and availed of a nice breather, so it became apparent, had Rocky.

When we launched our pincers' movement to surround and trap Rocky, he waited like a tailback on his linemen, and when a small hole developed off-tackle, Rocky was through it like Reggie Bush to daylight, leaving us with our plan askew, and a box full of nuthin'. In the words of Sheriff Roscoe P. Coaltrane, it was now "hot pursuit....geyuch, geyuch!".

The length of this particular facility is better than a single football field, east to west. And Rocky -- this time eschewing the stairs, knowing it wasn't Bullwinkle down there -- went the length of it, with six-seven middle-aged, increasingly out-distanced pursuers in his wake. But Rocky wasn't hard to follow: I had only to look at the bystanders, pointing at the squirrel in surprise, and laughing at us in bemused delight. One particular character gained my concealed ire, when after Rocky had passed him and I was approaching, intoned mockingly.."he's at the 50...the 40...the 35...he..could.. go...ALL THE WAY.." ala Chris Berman of ESPN. Standards of customer service and priorities of the moment prevented me from stopping off to rate his impression or jackslap him into the next area code.

Arriving at the west end of the facility, Rocky was confronted with the following options: to his left a bar; ahead, a big screen TV and wall; and to his right, a stair case. I knew that Rocky had instantly opted for the staircase, following the wave of laughter and pointing fingers. "Great", I muttered, "we get to do this again in the other f***ing direction!".

Rocky hesitated not, and rumbled down the stairs to the landing -- confronting unopened doors we hadn't had time to prop open -- and then down the second half of the stairs to the main floor, with us just now reaching the top of the stairs on the upper floor.

I really am getting too old for this sh**.

Once at the bottom, I and those not too winded to sort of keep up, were momentarily nonplussed: Rocky was nowhere to be seen. No laughter, no pointing fingers. Unlike upstairs, everyone in this area were oblivious to this Keystone Kops farce. So where had Rocky vanished to?

A quick flashlight beam into a decorative mine shaft to the right of the stairs answered the question. Rocky had made another tactical error. Or, a calculated decision on a last stand.

Either way, we had him cornered. Again. But this time, there were no holes for him to make an off-tackle lunge or end-around. He'd have to succumb, or whup us.

The shaft was decorative, and wasn't meant for human entry, but we knew that to complete the deal, someone had to go in there. Three of us did: one of my staff, our local gendarme...and my fat a...posteriored self.

Once inside, we were equipped with box, bag, gloves and flashlight, along with other extraneous items that did us no good or favors in that confined space. Adding to the complications, there was a mirror in the back of the shaft, there to provide the "illusion" that it was deeper and straighter than it was. We could see Rocky, poised in an upper corner of the shaft eyeing both us, and his chances. We saw he had him blocked; he had to see the same thing.

Rocky pondered his options a mo' as we got situated for Plan B...and then charged.

The mirror was no help: suddenly where we had been pursuing one squirrel, it looked like we were dealing with two, and they were going in different directions. A bit of pandemonium set in, while our back-up posse, waiting outside the shaft, was glad they were there, and not inside the sudden maelstrom.

But the mirror didn't do Rocky any favors, either: his squirrelakaze charge ran him right into the gendarme's waiting box.

For a moment, it was flying fur, epithets, and a series of "I got him...no...yes...where the f*** IS he?"s. And then one of us....beats me which...muttered a relieved "Sh**....we got 'em!"

From outside the shaft, a derisive cheer went up. From inside the now sealed box, came an Alvin-like voice, making all kinds of threats, including "your NUTS ARE MINE!" A married man, the gendarme's response was classic: "You'll never get 'em out of the lock box my wife has 'em in".

No further response from the box on that 'un.

Getting out of the shaft with a box full of vengeful squirrel was no easy feat: especially for my 6' 2", 240 lb ass. But we managed it, keeping a thoroughly annoyed Rocky in check.

From there, Rocky was transported out of the facility and across the main street. There the box was put down, and I formally advised Rocky that if he returned to the interior of this property, he'd be subject to arrest for trespass, or made an entree in the restaurant. And with that, he was released atop a snow bank, and sprinted away, making all kinds of disparaging comments about our ancestry, mothers, et al.

It took no time at all for the lore to begin there, and now Sunday, December 21, 2008, has been dubbed The Day The World Stood Squirrel.

Nuts.

*2010 note: to this day, witness employees still laugh at those of us engaged in the pursuit; and other casinos have run photos of a squirrel posing as a winner at their establishments. May their sewers back up...*