A displacement rant

This is a rant instead of a real rant, not that it's not real; it's just not about the truly serious concerns lurking in "the windmills of my mind" (wasn't that some stinky song lyric? something from a French song translated into English? Dusty Springfield?). They're digging up everything. When I say "they," I mean squirrels. These are squirrels old and wise, individually recognizable squirrels because of their battle scars, but they do not learn from experience. They should know by now where we plant the bulbs that are not tasty and yet they continue to excavate for them, leaving them naked atop the lawn and the flower beds and the pots. Squirrels! We don't plant the ones you like to eat! The only tasty ones remaining are the ones that you have never found. Since there's been no killing frost yet, thanks to a bit of strategic covering of pots with old bedsheets and towels and the odd pot carried indoors, we're still enjoying a proliferation of blooms from old-fashioned trailing nasturtiums and from clockvine (thunbergia alata?) on the trellis; and, of course, the geraniums are going crazy in this cooler weather. All these are triving alongside the baby pecan trees planted by the squirrels.