reminded me of this story. know it's long, but it's funny as hell.... and could possibly make your bad not quite as bad...
I was sitting here minding my own business, eating a blueberry muffin and a glass of milk for breakfast when I came across your squirrel story. F'ing hilarious. I laughed so hard that I ended up with ice cold milk running out my nose! Seriously, if they ever make another National Lampoon movie, that scene would be the funniest part of the movie.
I have a somewhat related 'critter and wiring' story from many years ago. My mom and dad and another couple were in their 30s and at that time each couple had 2-3 kids. Together they purchased a run down old log cabin way back in the woods in rural west central NH (they lived in Manchester, NH at the time). It wasn't much to look at but it was theirs and gave them a place to go on weekends. They used it for family time during the summer school break and went there a few weekends in the fall for bird and deer hunting. So it's summer time and we're all "up to camp" for 3 weeks. The two men were commuting from there to work. My dad was George and his friend was Hank. My dad was a heavy equipment operator who worked for a large construction company that built Interstate highways and left for work very early in the morning. Hank was a salesman for a large hardware distributor and had a lot of flexibility in his schedule and usually didn't get on the road until about 9:00.
Towards the end of the 3rd week Hank headed to work on a Friday morning but only went about 20 miles when his car died on the side of the road. It was a bit unusual since this Plymouth wagon was a company car and was brand new - having only had it 3-4 weeks. I should also say that Hank was raised in the city and didn't know squat about cars, hunting, fishing etc. On the other hand, my dad grew up in a very rural situation on a subsistence farm on the shore of a lake. He was very adept at fixing mechanical things and was an excellent hunter/fisherman. So anyway, Hank called the closest Plymouth garage to have his car towed. Turns out the problem was chewed wires under the hood. They were able to fix the wires and get him on his way that day. Over dinner (and likely a few vodkas - they were after all, "on vacation") they hatched a plan. It being Friday, they had 2 days to get the varmint before they headed home.
Now the story wouldn't be complete without telling you that this weekend had been designated as "paint the outside of the camp" weekend. It was a small building and they planned on getting the first coat done by Sunday and would put a second coat on later in the summer. If I remember correctly their typical ratio was 1-1 ..... they drank one fifth of vodka for each gallon of paint applied! Long after dinner on Saturday they were sitting around on the front screened porch working on their second fifth of the day when they heard a noise coming from the general area where the cars were parked just across the gravel road from the camp. My dad grabbed a flashlight and Hank grabbed my dad's Colt Woodsmen 22 pistol (that I still own today). Halfway out the door my father came to his senses a little bit and told Hank to switch the pistol for the flashlight with him, saying "Hank, gimme that god damned gun, you're likely to shoot a hole in the bottom of my car!" Remember Hank was a city boy and had very little gun experience.
They crept up close to the cars and with Hank holding a shaking flashlight and my dad down on his hands and knees to be able to see under the cars they spotted two porcupines under the cars. All hell broke loose and several shots were fired. The end result was one dead albino porcupine, one escapee, and one hole in my dad's gas tank ..... yup, he had shot a hole in his own f'ing gas tank! They stumbled back to the porch proudly displaying their kill to the wives and kids. Hank and George also had a great laugh over the fact they had shot a hole in the gas tank .... proving again that if you've consumed enough vodka over the course of a long day painting, that anything could be funny. My mom worried all night and all day Sunday about how they were going to get home. My father kept telling her "not to worry" but it didn't help her much. By late afternoon they started to pack up to head home and my mom was getting frantic about the gas tank. My dad had a plan all along. He took his pocket knife (back when all men carried pocket knives) and whittled an alder branch to a graduated point on one end. He then took a rock and hammered the peg into the hole in the tank. Mom was not at all convinced that would stay in place for the one hour ride home. They stopped at the first gas station and my dad filled 'er up. It never leaked a drop all the way home. In fact, my dad drove the car back and forth to work (150 mile round trip) for 3 weeks before finally pulling the tank and getting it welded. I'm not sure, but I think he did that just to needle my mom a while longer. In the annals of our family history, this story has been told many, many times and still lives on today - even if the principle characters have long gone to the big hunting grounds in the sky.