Anyone remember the cartoon Rocky and His Friends? I’m certainly not talking about that turkey of a movie that came out in 2000 with Rene Russo and Jason Alexander. Seriously Hollywood, there are some stories that don’t need retelling.

Anyway, I’ve gotten up close and personal with Rocky J. Squirrel – or at least his direct descendents. My attic has been invaded by flying squirrels.

It began three weeks ago. I awoke in the middle of the night to something. You know the sensation — although at the time, I assumed that it was Clio, our dog, trying to tell me that she needed to go out. Wonderful woman that I am, I ignored my first inclination – to wake my husband and tell him to take care of the damn dog. I sleepily accompanied Clio down the steps when I saw this little black animal half-flying, half-scurrying up the wall.

Forget wonder woman, I immediately headed back to the bedroom and screeched, “Get up.” I might point out that at this point, our faithful watchdog slid under the bed and was never heard from again that night.

My husband stumbled to his feet and headed for the door, when I, ever the Girl Scout leader, declared, “Put on your glasses.” No point in going into battle when you can’t see five feet in front of your face.

I resisted the urge to slide under the bed with Clio. After a few minutes, my husband returned and announced he had vanquished the intruder – or in this case, trapped what we thought was a baby squirrel in a paper bag and deposited him in the backyard.

Oh, would the story have ended happily right there.

Alas, over the next few days, we heard scurrying in the walls, although no more wildlife actually appeared where I could see them. A call to an exterminator informed me that squirrels were a protected species and couldn’t just be killed like rats. I wasn’t making such a fine distinction since my skin crawled at every sound. I needed a wildlife trapper. I had no idea that such a profession still existed. I thought trappers went the way of Daniel Boone and the beaver coat.

So now we have six traps installed in our attic, and the wildlife removal expert has promised to visit at least twice a week until the invasion has been definitively squelched. Then I need to hire a roofer to inspect our 18-month old roof to see where these squirrels are gaining entrance.

Cost? You don’t want to know, but let’s just say that Chanukah presents have been reduced to nuts for all.

I think I’ll move to Moosylvania.

Evelyn David