By:SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
Contributing Writer

Today a story of one man's battle against demons from — well, if not Hades, then some similar sinkhole of sedition, subversion and sabotage.

The events I am about to divulge took place several years ago. I don't know about statutes of limitations on the criminal activities committed by Our Hero in the course of defending his home and family. So don't even think about asking; his identity is my sworn secret.

Several years ago, Our Hero and his wife began hearing squirrels in the attic of their home. It seemed rather cute, the scurrying and scampering about — until the day one became trapped in a wall, and another when Our Hero went up there and found the Christmas decorations literally quivering.

The squirrels had to go. Our gentle Hero set a live trap, caught one of the interlopers, and carried it several miles away to be released unharmed.

Next day, when he caught another, he thought he'd make sure it wasn't the same squirrel coming back, and painted its tail green before freeing it.

On the third day, he painted the squirrel du jour's tail red, and on the fourth, yellow.

The squirrel he caught on the fifth day had a green tail.

The contest was no longer amusing. These were fuzzy-tailed rodents, not adorable cartoon characters. They were the enemy and this was war.

Green Tail met an early demise — details better left unreported, but in truth, the experience was unsettling to Our Hero, a sensitive man. On the advice of an animal behaviorist that the sight of a dead family member would scare off other squirrels, he threw Green's body on the roof.

Did I mention that Our anonymous Hero is a clergyman, pastor of a large area church you've never heard of? No wonder the image of him lobbing a dead squirrel to the roof of a two-story house is so jarring. His profession virtually mandates kindliness and compassion.

But the first enemy kill is the hardest, soldiers will tell you, even an Onward Christian Soldier, and the reverend found it easier to dispatch another. He went so far as to deploy their cadavers over the vents where they had been chewing their way in.

The carnage continued until the squirrels learned to avoid the trap. Apparently, however, they had not heard about the supposed deterrent effect of the sight of their cousins lying dead on the shingles, colored tails blowing softly in the wind. Callous beyond comprehension, their occupation of the attic continued unabated.

Our Hero tried everything. He had a tree trimmer remove the limbs from a tree near the house, then watched as the rampaging rodents learned to jump to his chimney from another tree. Unperturbed, they overcame every barrier, including the bodies of their kin, to get to what was clearly choice habitat for raising replacements.

Our Hero came nearly undone when he found a branch more than two feet long forced into the attic exhaust fan, causing the motor to burn out. The situation had escalated to dangerous. An electrician replaced the fan, and hardware wire was installed over every aperture in the roof.

Artillery dispatched three more, before word passed through the rat ranks: "Stay on the far side of the tree when the idiot comes out with the air rifle." The preacher finally threw up his hands in surrender when he looked up one day to see a furry head sticking out of a hole in the highest gable of his house, jeering at him.

And so it went for several years. One solution after another apparently worked, then failed, and the rodent colony seemed a permanent installation.

Until this spring when Our Hero had the house painted. With proper scaffolding, repairmen replaced all the chewed-out wood and installed hardware wire over every possible entry. And just like that, no more squirrels.

It was as though the clan had gone out for lunch and when they came back, couldn't get in, and have not been heard from since.

Thank heaven, says Our Hero.

This story has a postscript. The beleaguered cleric's office staff had heard so much about his jihad that they went to elaborate lengths to celebrate his birthday last year in a manner befitting his obsession.

Every birthday card had a squirrel on it; every gift was a toy squirrel, or nuts, or ears of corn. For weeks afterward, whenever he opened a book or unfolded a clerical robe, a picture of a squirrel would flutter out.

There were "squirrels" everywhere.

At about this time the church building was being extensively renovated. Even when construction left large gaps in walls and roof, services continued as usual. Had I not been an eyewitness, I would not have believed what happened on Maundy Thursday evening, during one of the most solemn observances in the church year.

Our Hero was beginning his sermon when a furtive movement at the chancel steps caught the attention of a worshipper in the front row. In moments the entire assembly was craning to see that the preacher — who was the last to notice — was sharing the dais with a small, furry gray squirrel, bathed in light, looking from side to side as though he had no idea how he got there or how to leave.

As pianist that evening, I was in the choir loft. The little squirrel dashed up the short ramp and stopped at my feet. I considered throwing my jacket over him, but that would have caused even more commotion. Then he noticed me and took off down a side aisle, where an usher courteously opened a door and let him out.

Our reverend Hero had been outdone again by a bushy-tailed rat.

And the church staff categorically denies complicity.

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