This morning I went out and discovered once again the persistence of a squirrel. Since early spring, squirrels have been digging all over my yard, in the beds, in the sod, in pots full of plants. In spite of my efforts to stymie the little rascals, they keep digging, maybe for nuts buried last fall or maybe just for the fun of it. After years of no squirrels at all, squirrel nests now abound in pecan trees next to my yard and behind it, and in a neighbor’s maple tree on the other side. Even two of my Foster hollies were marred with squirrel nests until Frank rigged a long pole and poked them out, raining leaves and nasty bits of debris on everything below.
Throughout the summer, squirrels kept digging holes, tossing
aside plants, and leaving piles of displaced soil. We squirted them with blasts
of water, chased them with a broom, and welcomed dogs and cats into the yard to
run them out. All to no avail. A few weeks ago, anticipating their bright
colors all winter, I planted pansies. The next morning half the pansies, with
their bare roots shriveling in the sun, were lying beside squirrel holes. Every
time I replanted them, squirrels unplanted them.
I don’t have a happy ending for this sad story. I’m still
battling squirrels, even placed my baby succulents in a cage to thwart the
rodents. But I have learned the meaning of persistence.
I’ve been told again and again a writer has to be persistent
to find an agent. My new novel HAIRT BEFORE DAWN has undergone serious surgery
and been reduced from a hefty 107,000 words to a lean, power-packed 90,000.
After a number of rewrites and interest from several agents, it is now time for
me to persist until I find the right one for me. I’m making my list and checking
it more than twice. I
will find an agent for I have developed the persistence of a squirrel.
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