The Rural Ethicist: Squirrel Choreography and Car Horns

By Katherine Adams

May 2025

Now with the chilly April rains (and snows) having led to May flowers, you may see your share of creatures, both swift and slithering, crossing the rural roads.

Squirrels, unnervingly, like to make a game of dart. Instinctually, you might tap the brakes and try a succession of horn “beeps” to startle them away from danger—while hopefully not annoying anyone within earshot.

This approach can work—but not reliably. Sometimes, a squirrel will grow visibly confused, darting back and forth.

Squirrel. Photo: Shane Young

There is much conflicting advice about honking away wildlife along the road; some encourage tooting your horn to scare animals to safety, while others warn it can backfire by startling creatures into unpredictable or dangerous behavior.

My father gave me my first driving lesson in his beloved Corvair along a quiet, winding back road, approaching Dream Away Lodge in Becket. After stopping by a neighbor’s house to fix something gone awry, as he often did on weekend afternoons, he announced it was a good day for me to have my first driving lesson.

“But, I’m only 12 years old,” I protested, flummoxed by the idea.

“That’s a perfect time to learn,” he insisted, pulling off the side of the road. He offered me to shuffle over the seat, while he walked around and climbed into the passenger side.

I sat behind the wheel, studying the instrument panel. The small column shifter was strangely mounted up high near the steering wheel, unlike any I had seen.

“Step on the brake and just move the switch into ‘drive’ to go,” he indicated.

I blinked at the odd little lever, looking like a bar-tack switch on a sewing machine. Toggled by a mere thumb and forefinger, it seemed a toy compared to the floor-mounted, 4-speed manual shifter knobs I’d seen in other cars. I gave the gas pedal a tap and jerked us along at a top speed of 15 mph.

Dad was a patient, good sport about the whole endeavor. Among the many pieces of car-driving wisdom he imparted was a strict rule about horn honking—to avoid it, whenever possible.

“Kathy, I just hate it when people honk their horn,” he stated, ascribing it as the essence of rudeness. "Don’t go laying on your horn unless it’s an emergency,” he cautioned. He felt as strongly about horn-blaring as he did about riding the clutch on a standard transmission, or allowing the water to run while doing dishes—all supreme no-nos.

He would, however, accommodate a few brief beeps if you really, really must do it.

I took his advice to heart, using only a rare, shallow staccato of friendly “hi there!” beeps to scare foolhardy wildlife away from country roads, over the following decades.

But then, recently, a young daredevil squirrel didn’t scoot out of the way as decisively as I had hoped, following my brief rat-a-tat report. I’m glad to say the little fella did make it across the road, after his initial confusion; but only by a whisker.

A few weeks later, a wayward squirrel again dared to play roulette with the road. While my dad’s defensive driving lessons have long shaped my habits, I decided to try a more direct approach. Clapping on the horn, I held it down for a couple of seconds. It felt bold, even rebellious. And that no-nonsense blast hustled the inquisitive little creature straight off the road—fast.

Maybe a longer, sober honk works best while driving out in the country? Otherwise, “You’re only choreographing squirrel indecision,” a friend noted, in one of the more poetic, efficient and witty observations ever uttered on the fly.

We can only research the latest recommendations and do our best to keep roads safe. Urban settings would entail a more considered strategy, due to a combination of adapted wildlife patterns and volume of traffic.

I went down a squirrel hole to unearth the best car-horn counsel; but in the end, I just had to shape a column around that fantastic, bright little piece of poetry I’d been carrying around.