A few weeks ago, I told you about the problem I've been having with squirrels.  Not all squirrels; just the squirrels that have decided to winter in my attic.

I was, if you will remember, feeling a little guilty about trying to capture them in a live trap for release in a nearby meadow.  I was afraid they wouldn't have time to build a nest or find a hollowed-out tree in which to live before the snow flew.

I'm a bit of a nerd when it comes to animal welfare, I'll be the first to admit.  Don't get me wrong; I've hunted, I eat meat, I have no compunctions about shooting Bambi.  I'm at the top of the food chain and I'm not going to apologize for that.

But I really hate to see any of nature's creatures inconvenienced, or heaven forbid, killed, for no reason.

In the past few weeks, those squirrels have given me a reason.

Now, don't flip out and call your maiden aunt who also happens to be the local PETA president; I'm not going to kill any squirrels.  Even squirrels that may at this point richly deserve it.

But I have to do something.

My little live trap trick worked once and once only.  I caught one of the little, attic-dwelling rodents in the middle of the night, took it out to the woods the next morning and introduced it to a life devoid of human-provided lodgings.  When I opened the trap, the squirrel shot away like ... well ... like the bats that used to live in my attic before the squirrels chased them out.

I stood watching from the roadside for a minute, just to make sure the little guy found his way safely into the trees.  Then I drove home.

Somehow, the squirrel got there before me.  Or one just like him.  He was sitting on the roof, gazing down at me disdainfully as I wheeled my pickup into the driveway.

That was two weeks ago and no squirrels have gone near my live trap since.  Apparently, they've all received the memo.

I could poison them.  I don't think there's a law against that, but maybe there is.  Even if there's not, I'm waaaayyyy to much of a softie to intentionally poison anything.  I even refuse to kill mice that way.

I have cats for that job.  The Lovely Mrs. Taylor's two Siamese mousers do not share my soft spot for all creatures great and small.  If they can kill it, they will kill it.  And they'll do it in as slow and heartless a manner as possible.

The cats enjoy killing things.  For those two, a little rodent torture followed by a decapitation is the recipe for a pleasant Sunday afternoon.

Suffice it to say we do not have a mouse problem at the Taylor home.  The neighborhood mice got that memo years ago.

Which is why I thought my squirrel problems might be drawing to a close last week, when one of the varmints decided the attic was too confining and made his way downstairs.

I was in my office upstairs when I heard the sound of things flying off the kitchen counter.  Usually, this indicates the cats are bored for lack of something to torture and kill, and have decided to chase each other around the house, just to keep in practice.

I went downstairs to pick up the mess and throw ineffectual curses at the cats, as I always do.

But they were both stretched out on the La-Z-Boy, looking like they'd been there a while.  Kipper, my beagle-mix mutt, was ensconced in his usual quarters on the sofa.  All three were gazing into the kitchen with polite interest at whatever might be making all the racket.

All three were too lazy to get off their furred butts and actually go into the kitchen to investigate further.

 "Let the hairless monkey do it," their eyes seemed to say.  So I did.

Or started to, rather.  I'd taken only two steps toward the kitchen when a small, rust-colored blur shot past my feet.  It slid behind the sofa, and then barreled across the living room and into the fireplace, then out again and back toward the kitchen.

The second time it passed, I saw it was a squirrel.  The cats and my dog (supposedly of a mighty hunting lineage) lifted their heads to watch the squirrel's progress, but that was it.  This was my fight, apparently.

Now, I hate to brag, but I am an expert bat catcher.  Every year, we get at least a half-dozen or so who find their way into the house, usually at night when we're watching television.  I have a big fishing net hanging in the garage specifically for dealing with this situation.

I can catch a bat, give it a good talking to, put it back outside and still have time to fix myself a sandwich before the commercial break ends.  I'm the Arnold Schwarzenegger of bat hunting.  The Batinator.

Anyway, I figured that if the net worked on winged rodents, it would probably serve to snag this wingless interloper as well.

Well, it turns out that squirrels are way faster than bats.  They can fit into spaces that at first glance appear much too small to permit rodent access.  They can climb walls, and no, I am not kidding.  They can leap 30 feet through the air.  And they can do more damage in five minutes than a bat could do in a lifetime.

It took about half-an-hour, but eventually - and with no help from the Taylor family's four-legged members - I managed to snag the squirrel.  By this time, he and I were both exhausted.  Even so, he fought heroically to wriggle his way out of the tangle of netting.

Fortunately, I was able to get him out the door before he did.  He ran off toward one of my backyard maples and I haven't seen him since.

But I've heard him.  Oh, yes, there in the attic, partying with all his buds, telling the story of how much fun he had while the "lumbering idiot" (as I suspect the squirrels call me when I'm out of earshot) chased him around the house.

I can swear I hear them in there laughing.  And I have a bad, bad feeling this isn't over yet.  As long as that squirrel is making a home in my attic, I won't stop trying to evict him.

So listen up, acorn breath, and heed the warning the bats know all too well: I'll be back.