Excerpt from Pests by Bethany Brookshire, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Introduction: A Pest Is _____?

Consider the squirrel.

Many people love squirrels. People cheer for them and smile as their compact, fluffy bodies race over trees and power lines. Every college campus is convinced their squirrels are bolder than any others. I've got a friend who posts a squirrel picture to Twitter every single day, without fail. Squirrels are symbols of fluffy, chipper, charming wildlife come to grace our suburban and urban lives.

Then there's me. Me and F***ing Kevin.

F***ing Kevin is an Eastern gray squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis). We call him Kevin for short. He lives in a graceful maple in front of my house. He's a fine, chubby figure of a squirrel. His especially busy tail flicks forward over his back as he trots confidently around my property.

Kevin is my mortal enemy.

This squirrel is the reason I haven't had a tomato from my struggling little garden for at least five years.

I'm a poor gardener at best. But every time the weather warms, optimism kicks in, and I try again. In years past, I would line big pots up on the back porch and plant seedlings with desperate hope. I've tried most of the usual suspects—basil, zucchini, peppers. But there's a special place in my heart for tomatoes. I have memories from childhood of standing in the middle of my mom's tiny, somewhat dry garden plot in the heat of late July, sneaking cherry tomatoes off the vine and popping them in my mouth. They burst joyfully on my tongue. They were sun warmed and intensely flavorful. The best health food I'd ever tasted.

Every spring, I set out to recapture that perfect experience. I sally forth with hope and plant my tomato seedlings.

Every summer, I am doomed to fail. Because of F***ing Kevin.

There's definitely more than one of him, to be fair. Kevin's probably the godfather of a squirrel mafia. Maybe he's like Batman, with different squirrels donning the mask at different times. To me, though, they're all Kevin.

He owns my yard. He chitters bossily at me from his tree and makes little threatening rushes at me on the sidewalk. But his biggest crimes occur when my precious tomatoes emerge. They swell up, hopeful and green. Every year I look at them and cross my fingers. Just a few more sunny days and those lovely little beauties will be mine. I start planning menus of caprese salad, ratatouille, and salsa.

And every year, Kevin strikes. He selects a nice, plump green tomato and takes a big bite. Suddenly, Kevin recalls that he does not, in fact, like tomatoes. He leaves the perfect green sphere with its tragic tooth marks to rot—making sure to leave it right where I can see it.

Then he does it again. And again. It's an aggressive show of constant optimism. Every evening, it seems, Kevin tries out a new tomato, then remembers that tomatoes suck. He leaves his victims for me to find as a clear sign of his superiority. For five years running, Kevin has taken a bite out of every single tomato in my garden and stuck me with store-bought salsa.

I've tried a lot of things to get rid of Kevin. I put chicken wire around my plants, but squirrel paws (and cherry tomatoes) are smaller than typical chicken wire holes. I sprayed the growing tomatoes with a cayenne-pepper solution to burn his little mouth. He waited, then chowed down after a late summer rainstorm washed it away. I started feeding feral cats on the back porch, thinking a predator or three would keep him at bay. The cats became tame. Two came inside and became our new pets. Kevin added cat food to his diet.

One year I tried the nuclear option. I planted no tomatoes. Instead, I filled pots and cups with jalapeño pepper seeds, hoping Kevin would fall for my devious trick. I fantasized about his squeak of spiced dismay. I pictured a speedy squirrel retreat and the tears running down his furry cheeks (squirrels can't weep, but I can dream).

Excerpted from Pests by Bethany Brookshire. Copyright © 2022 by Bethany Brookshire. Excerpted by permission of Ecco. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.