I'm told, I need to buy pee. Urine. #1. It's descended to this. Scrolling down, I see that even if I could whiz in a cup and get it past my family and outside, it's not the right kind of pee.

Somehow I need to get a coyote, red fox or bobcat to pee right on a tree limb and under the feeder. Sure, i just happened to have a coyote, fox, or bobcat in my closet. All this and my fiancee is allegic to cats. Can these wild animals pee on command? I don't even think I can anymore.

Billy in 'Bama saves me. On a critter-ridder site, he says you can actually buy pee ... in my local Ag store. Thankfully, in Tallahassee we have a Weed & Feed/Ice Cream Parlor Store. It's built to look like a barn. Load up the minivan, my fiancee and I are off to buy coyote urine.

And maybe some ice cream.

Hay bales in the parking lot, plastic flowers in plastic pots, wood floors, a painting of a horse... we're in the country alright. It also smells like dog food, cat food, horse stuff, and Double Chocolate Peppermint Rocky Dough Swirl. And the store is filled with big guys, with big belt buckles. And John Deere hats.

Standing there in Comfort Waist cargo shorts, and a fake Hawaiian shirt with colorful flowers, I don't feel so good. I pass on the taste of Triple Berry Latte Chunk Freeze sample offered from Sam. I need boots in this store.

Walking with my future wife on our eighth circuit of the store, I'm praying, "Please let me find the urine aisle by myself... don't make me ask." Aisle P only has pet food, homemade sausages, and fresh steaks. The freshest, I still hear mooing in the back.

I need to ask. "Ah, sir," I say, to a guy with a Deere hat and NASCAR buckle, "Do you sell coyote urine?" Please dear Lord, let it be right behind this guy. It's not. Pulling on his Agway Feed T-shirt, he bellows across the store, "HEY, BOSS, DO WE SELL COYOTE PISS? THIS GUY HERE NEEDS SOME."

My fiancee, jumping in to save me, says, "We have a squirrel problem, we just need to buy some pee."

"BOSS, THEY HAVE A SQUIRREL PROBLEM. THEY NEED PISS FOR THE SQUIRRELS."

Over at the Ice Cream Parlor, Sam has stopped serving. Looking right at me, I know she's thinking that the guy in the Gap Hawaiian shirt needs to buy pee! From the horse-feed section, the boss finally answers, "WE DON'T SELL PISS. JUST TELL HIM TO SHOOT THEM."

Holding open the door for my fiancee as she walks quickly through the trucks to the minivan, the feed sales associate leans over to me as I'm trying to leave, and in a whisper says to me: "Use a 22."

Leaving the parking lot, I hear, "Don't even think of it." She wasn't talking about ice cream.

On Froogle, you can buy pee. Froogle gods prefer to call it "urine." "Whiz" just pulled up cheese spread. "Piss" got a report sent to Microsoft. Coyote, red fox, bobcats, and something that makes deer horny. Having enough animal issues, I went with coyote pee. In a box. Amazingly, on eBay, you can bid on coyote pee in a bottle, $11 plus shipping. Since I know the mailman, I went the urine-in-a-box route. With small-town mail, better the box than the bottle.

Three-to-five days insured. Coyote urine in the mailbox. Into the kitchen, on the island, open the envelope, take out the box, rip open the top, and OH MY GOD!!! To my fiancee's horror, I've just brought the Bronx Zoo into her kitchen, and it's on her new countertop.

We are downwind of the backside of the world. Coyote smelly. It's the gym lost-and-found room in August, it's a pack of wet dogs, it's getting skunked. I've opened up a box of the powdered smell of the Middle Ages. This is Hall-of-Fame stink. And the directions say I need to squeeze the packets to release the "bouquet." My eyes are watering, my nose is running, and the thing isn't even turned on yet.

I'm beginning to hate birds.

Outside, I don one of my batting glove on the one hand I can afford to lose, I squeeze. And the smell gets worse. I've now set the pee alive. It's the fish-market dumpster, the child-care poopy pail, the monkey house with the windows closed. I need to tie it to the tree branch. With a twist tie. I have the smell of hell, in a baggy.

Mickey, Minne, And Donald, your sinuses are about to be cleaned.

Coyotes are a squirrel's worst nightmare, second only to all-weather tires. One sniff of coyote pee, and they will be off my tree. That's what the package says. And it worked. For 48 hours, no squirrels, or neighbors for that matter. Just birds: a woodpecker, doves, and finally, a cardinal, just like on the bag.

I order a book on birds of Florida, and one for birds of Georgia, in case they get lost. I buy binoculars.

I am a birdwatcher. three months late.

"Honey, they're back." My gut tells me, it's not the neighbors.

In my yard, binoculars on high, I see Mickey, sitting on the coyote pee pouch, eating seed. Minnie and Donald are on the ground, hoarding seed.

They've figured out coyotes don't live in trees. And they win.