Me & Larry

Me and Larry — we have a problem.

You already know me, but you may not know Larry.

“Larry” is a 65-pound, four-foot squirrel with razor-sharp teeth — and he is wreaking havoc with the oasis of tranquility that I am trying to create in my back yard.

Okay, maybe I am exaggerating just a bit. While we already covered my penchant for stretching the truth in last week’s column, there is no denying that Larry is a “big” squirrel; and he does represent a clear and present danger to the lingering strands of my sanity.

Just this morning, I got up early to help the kids make a Mother’s Day breakfast in bed for Laura. If you know my wife, you also know that I didn’t need to get up early. I could have waited until noon, but I was concerned that the kids would start without me.

Standing at the kitchen sink, I looked out the window. And there was Larry, gleefully feasting on the premium bird seed that I bought just two weeks ago. I think he saw me in the window and sneered in my direction, using his little paws to make the shape of an “L” on his furry forehead: LOSER.

To make matters worse, he was hanging five feet off the ground, sitting atop my new cedar bird feeder. Somehow, Larry figured out the new pole I bought last week. He ignored the so-called “squirrel-baffle” I installed. Again, he anticipated my every move and outsmarted me, just like Liz Gold does on deadline day.

Ignoring the rain, I ran outside to take up arms against my oppressor, but I forgot that I was only wearing a tee-shirt and boxer shorts. So there I was, in all my half-naked glory, screaming like a lunatic in the rain and throwing rocks at an animal that is obviously smarter and faster than me.

The rocks missed Larry, but I did hit the new bird feeder, cracking the glass where the seed is stored. “You just wait,” I screamed, marching back into the house and searching for the BB gun. “Say hello to my little friend,” I said, still mostly naked but now armed with my Daisy Sharp-Shooter as I stomped back outside.

Larry finally scurried back to the hills of Lessard Avenue, but I’ve got a funny feeling that he’ll be back — just like John Martin, the man who dominated the Maine House of Representatives for nearly two decades.

John Martin and Larry have a lot in common. They both have beady eyes and razor sharp teeth. And they both like to feed on the fruits of southern Maine’s labor. Thus, our state’s term limits law has become a lot like those so-called “squirrel baffles” that you can buy at home and garden stores: inefficient and expensive.

Just like Larry, John Martin — the most famous Democrat north of Bangor — and his band of merry men have figured a way around the law. The champion of Eagle Lake is now back in the Legislature; this time in the senate.

Maine’s term limits law accomplishes little to nothing when it comes time providing a level playing field for others who would like to go to Augusta to raise taxes, create new laws and get a voice in the debate of whether Moxie should be the state beverage.

While term limits does wipe out the Legislature’s institutional memory base, it also makes our state lawmakers look like a collection of 186 pinheads, especially when compared to the more seasoned lobbyists and bureaucrats who have burrowed themselves into the corridors of power in Augusta.

Just as we got rid of Johhny Martin and his “ballotgate” antics, he found a loophole and went back to Augusta. Term limits did nothing but interrupt his feeding frenzy.

Now I don’t blame the people of Eagle Lake for voting repeatedly to send Johnny back to Augusta. He’s smart and effective. He knows how to bring home the bacon for a region that is known better for its moose-vehicle collisions than for its new technology firms.

Term limits, at least, provide an interruption of the political power grab. For those of us who live outside any particular legislative district — such as Eagle Lake or Biddeford’s District 135 — term limits allows us some relief from a smaller group of apathetic or over-zealous voters.

Besides, you can’t very well go into northern Maine to “hunt” John Martin dressed only in a tee-shirt and boxer shorts with a Daisy BB gun or any other kind of weapon, unless, of course, you’re wearing hunter orange. And then, you’ll blend in perfectly.

I’ll be returning my squirrel baffle, and Maine voters should follow my lead and dump our term limits law. Let’s face it. The squirrels will never change, and we all have more important things to do — so how ‘bout that Moxie?