Suki: 1, Squirrels: 0

Ding dong, the squirrel’s dead!
Which old squirrel? The nasty squirrel!
Ding dong the nasty squirrel’s dead!

Everybody now!

Wake up, sleepy head; rub your eyes, get out of bed.
Wake up, the nasty squirrel’s dead!
It’s gone where my poop sacks go,
In the trash, below, below…

Sing it with me!

Ding dong, the merry-oh
Sing it high, sing it low,
Let them know
The nasty squirrel’s dead!

And…take five everybody. Good work, folks, good work. Make sure you know the dance steps by next rehearsal.

Well, in case the news in your area has been dominated with trivial things like “mid-term elections” and “dictators being sentenced to death,” let me fill you in on the real news: I killed a squirrel. I’m a squirrel killer. I kill.

First of all, someone is clearly intimidated by my prowess, because I was poisoned—poisoned, I tell you!—this weekend. Monarchs don’t go into the details of their gastrointestinal problems, but let’s just say it was coming out of both ends with alarming frequency. Should a certain interloper in Georgia think that he can orchestrate hits on me while in the kennel, please be advised that I now have food tasters, and Anne-Marie and Eph will be sampling all that is put in front of me from here on out. Schmailey, don’t get too comfortable—I’m returning to my Georgia estate for the holidays, and there will be a reckoning, so help me God.

In spite of the fact that I puked three successive times at about 5:30 a.m. on Saturday morning and then had to be taken out to relieve myself in the cold, dark morning, my iron will prevailed. Much like Michael Jordan in Game 5 of the 1997 NBA Finals, I suited up for game time. Whining conspicuously, scratching the door, Eph and Anne-Marie were fooled into thinking I had to take yet another bathroom break. Leash on, poop bag in hand, they led me to my recreational facility, known colloquially as “Washington Huron Park,” where I spied my nemeses, grouped in droves on my property.

Huddling behind the perceived safety of the wrought-iron fence, two squirrels in particular nattered on mindlessly to one another, frolicking like fools in the piles of fallen leaves. Hunched in stalking position, I skulked closer with panther-like stealth, eyes narrowed and locked on my prey. Waiting, waiting, I patiently let them continue their chatter until the final second when I sprang into full sprint towards them.

They froze for a deadly moment, wide-eyed in terror, as I came closer and closer. One had the presence of mind to leap up into a tree, but the other ran for the fence, stupidly thinking it could squeeze through the chain link. But no, I caught it by the tail, dragged it into the open, seized it in the vice-grip of my chompers and shook like no squirrel has ever been shaken before. It squealed, trying to squirm free, and Anne-Marie and Eph—traitors!—came running to its aid. But they, like the other squirrels who looked on in horror from the trees, were not to win this day. Clenched in my jaws, I thrashed and thrashed until the death rattle sounded and the rodent, deemed a “two pounder” by Anne-Marie, went lifeless. Evading Anne-Marie and Eph’s multiple attempts to wrest the corpse from my grip, I buried my enemy in the dirt under a jungle gym as the rest of the park stood silent and still.

Let this be a warning to all squirrels: I will tolerate your presence no more. You, the pigeons and the raccoons will no longer operate your Axis of Evil, and I am prepared to pre-emptively invade surrounding neighborhoods to protect what is rightfully mine (as designated by the telephone poles and fire hydrants I’ve peed on).

Journalists and the public should direct all inquiries to my press secretary, Fresno. I bid you good day.