Doing the Macharana
By Don Weston
I once made the mistake of buying a squirrel feeder, although the purchase of the 50-pound sack of walnuts likely was my
I often procrastinated filling the feeder and the squirrels took to helping themselves from the bag on the deck. Soon we had over a dozen squirrels visiting our porch all day long.
My next door neighbor, Iracible Jones doesn’t like urban animals. “I think I got something living in my chimney,” he said across our fence. “I was in my basement the other day and I smelled urine. It seemed to be coming from the fireplace.” His eyes narrowed. “I hope it’s not a Raccoon or a Opposum.”
“I climbed up on the roof and looked down the chimney,” he said. “There’s a bunch of little ledges down there where a critter could sleep.”
For some reason, I remembered the squirrels holding large gatherings on my back porch around the near empty sack of walnuts. I decided not to mention this to Iracible.
“You could put some wire across your chimney top,” I suggested.
“Nah, too much work. I thought about building a fire, but I ain’t got no firewood. I could go out and chop some, but . . .”
“Too much work,” I said.
“Yep. But I got an easy solution. I got this little furry gorilla doll in
He invited me in and took me to his basement to show me his fireplace. “Smell anything funny?” he said.
“It smells pretty bad,” I admitted.
“Put your hands on your hips and do the macharana!”
“Its my gorilla,” Iracible yelped. “There’s something up there!”
Turn your hips around . . . Screeeech-- Ick Ick Ick -- Do the—screech-- mararana.”
“Sound like it’s scared of my gorilla,” Iracible squealed. He ran over to the fireplace and stuck his head up in the chimney. “Can’t see anything. Hand me the flashlight over there on the table. I’ll just crank this flue wide open . . .”
“Do the macharana . . .Ick, Ick, Ick . . .Rumble, Rumble, clank, clank, clank, clank, clank . . .”
Iracible was laying on his back with his nose up the flue when a ton of little tan rocks pelted him. Only they weren’t rocks; they were . . . WALNUTS!
“Auuuugh! Ow, Ow, Ow, Ow!” Iracible cried. About thirty pounds of walnuts crashed onto the hearth and scattered across the room. “What the heck is going on?” He gingerly touched his forehead where the walnuts drew welts.
We stepped away in horror at the ephitats echoing from the chimney. “Ick, Ick, Ick! Do the Macharana . . . Screech, Screech, Scheech! Little clumps of brown fur fell gently from the flue as the terror continued.
Ick, Ick, Ick! “Put your hands on your hips . . . Schreeeeech! More brown fur fell. A furless body landed in a clump at our feet. I prodded it with a fireplace poker. The lifeless body didn’t move, but seemed to emit a groan. “Auuugh . . .Do the Macharana, whirrr. Sprong!”
It was the Macharana Gorilla. A squirrel poked his head through the flue and looked at the beast. “Ick, Ick, Ick . . .” it scolded. With a flick of its tail, it retreated up the chimney.
Iracible felt responsible for the untimely end of the gorilla and he buried it in his flower beds near his meticulously manicured lawn. I returned to my back porch to put away the sack of walnuts, but there was only five left in the bag.
I thought I heard that poor gorilla singing the Macharana out in the back yard a few times during the Winter, but put it down to some kind of shock syndrome. However, one Spring morning when the sun was shining, I heard the faint melody again.
“Put your hand on your hips, Ick, Ick, Ick, Do the Macharana.”
I went to the dining room and looked out the sliding glass door. On the fence, were 10 squirrels in a little line. They did little piourettes in unison and were humming—or something like humming: “Do the Macharana.”
I screamed for my wife to see and hear the spectacle, but each time she came into view they scrambled off. I saw Iracible across the fence in his backyard one day, and he admitted the squirrels put on similar shows for him. “Five times a day, with two matinees on the weekend,” he said.
“I can’t get that song out of my head,” he moaned. “And just look at all these bumps in my pretty lawn. Know what they are?” He bent over and dug up a lump with a weeding tool. It was a walnut with little roots sprouting from it. Those darn squirrels buried these things all over my back yard.
I ran home to check my yard. It too, was littered with walnut-sized bulges. I heard a snickering on the fence. “Put your hands, on your hips, Ick, Ick, Ick, do the Macharana . . .”