Red squirrels came with the house I bought thirty years ago. Every morning they race across the roof and bounce into the trees, chattering and chasing each other. Every so often they freeze upside down on a tree trunk, tails flicking, nostrils twitching, eyeing me as I watch them cavort from one end of the garden to the other.
I hung a bird feeder from one of the trees. The squirrels chattered for joy and raced across my roof more than once that day. The friskiest one walked the length of the branch, hung by his hind legs, stretched himself out as far as he could, grabbed the feeder and brought it close to scoop seed into his waiting mouth. The next day I came home with a metal pole with an extension arm and planted it in the middle of the garden away from the trees. It stood there like the forbidden tree in the Garden of Eden. No sooner had I hung the feeder that the squirrels climbed their way up, reached the feeder, shook it hard, watched the seeds scatter to the ground, and then jumped down eagerly to feed on them. I refused to be defeated, so I greased the pole with vegetable oil. Now the squirrels strain their way up to the top, red bellies glistening in the sun, their brown eyes fixed on me as they slide down the pole like firefighters.
Now that’s fighting through resistance.
Calvin says, “I’m rooting for the squirrels. I may even lick off the oil.”