Belknap campus's most famous rodents have long attracted the squirrel lover's (sometimes bordering on obsessive) passion, stealing the spotlight from their ubiquitous kin. But a visit to the Quad on a spring day proves that the gray squirrels are not wanting for love either, as students dole out french fries and Fritos to the eager critters squatting on their hind quarters, begging like trained canines.

With the exception of a Planter's Peanut factory, U of L might possibly be the squirrel equivalent of nirvana-lots of big trees, an ample supply of nuts and an endless trail of junk food. Cardinals aside, this is squirrel country.

And in squirrel country, the story goes something like this . . .

The White Stuff

William Morison, director of University Archives, paces slowly behind his long desk on the third floor of Ekstrom Library as he tries to set the record straight once and for all. He occasionally shakes his head and opens or crosses his arms in amusement or disbelief as he shares his story.

Despite his best efforts, his fate at U of L is sealed.

He knows it. He accepts it. And he laughs about it.

"You know, you want to leave a mark in life," says Morison, who has been at his job since 1973. " I guess with me it's going to be the white squirrel."

It took just 200 words for Morison to accidentally crown himself the "authority" on the school's famous albino tenants when, in 1983, he wrote a short article for the university's faculty and staff publication Inside U of L. In it, Morison shared what he learned from two U of L biology professors about how long the white squirrels have been on campus. (Answer: at least since the 1930s.)

This request in the article's closing sentence is what ultimately did Morison in: "... if you have any information about how long the squirrels have been on campus I wish you'd give me a call."

His phone has been ringing ever since.

The calls have ranged from the weird to the weirder.

"I've gotten telephone calls from people who were just all excited and wanting me to tell them all about U of L's white squirrels," Morison says, laughing.

One eager out-of-towner, for instance, pulled off the road as he was passing through Louisville to phone Morison and say that he was not able to drop by for a little eprsonal squirrel talk, but that he'd write when he got home.

Then there was the caller who confessed that she had trapped one of the ivory squirrels. Why? So she could heist it back to another state and release it in her town's woods in hopes of starting a colony there.

Although Morison is happy to share what he knows about white squirrels with anyone, in fact, he admits, "I don't know anything. I've just written a little bit about them and become the world's authority."

He does, however, have a good theory to explain their popularity.

If you happen to see one, Morison says, "It just makes you smile."

Or possibly alert the authorities.

Close Encounters

Tammy Lawson's first encounter with U of L's Famous white squirrels sent her calling Physical Plant to come and get rid of the "rat." Today, although she has far kinder thoughts of these campus icons, photographer Tom Fougerousse could not persuade her to pose with one. So we used the magic of computer graphics to help Lawson ake peace with the cute--but sometimes pesky--critters.

When campus tour coordinator Tammy Lawson-who reluctantly and graciously shared this story-was transferred to her new post in the Information Center on the Oval, she saw something that startled her. So she phoned Physical Plant.

Lawson says that she was "so embarrassed" when she learned that the white rat she thought she'd seen was actually a squirrel. She had never been told they were on campus, much less encountered one before.

Others on campus are well aware of their existence, dealing with them on an almost daily basis. Take Dave Loeffler, facilities manager of the university libraries, for example, who was trying to catch one of the critters that had set up camp inside Ekstrom Library.

After three days of frustration he decided to try something different, something layered with chocolate and peanut butter. He had trouble resisting its mouth-watering allure, he reasoned, so why not give it a shot?

Instead of the usual nuts as bait, Loeffler placed a piece of his Sin Bar-the Ermin's Bakery answer to how to expand your waistline in one delicious step-just inside the trap and left for the night.

His Sin paid off.

The next morning, inside the cage rested a plump and no doubt satisfied squirrel. Loeffler gently carried it outside and set it free.

When squirrels seek shelter in places like Ekstrom in search of food and a warm spot to crash, Loeffler and his counterparts in other buildings usually call Physical Plant. More often than not, the person who is sent to the scene is grounds services foreman Stanley Wolff.

Wolff is the "Crocodile Hunter" of the squirrel world, universally praised for his expertise in harmlessly removing the cute but frequently pesky critters. And just like the Aussie reptile expert Steve Irwin, Wolff has a devout fan club, too.

"He's our squirrel catcher extraordinaire," says his boss Lucian Young, the university's superintendant of grounds.

George Howe, director of the student activities center, is also a member.

"Stanley saved the day," says Howe, recounting a recent episode when Wolff successfully and safely coaxed a nest of squirrels out of the Red Barn.

According to Young, the Red Barn incident underscores the overlooked side of life with squirrels-the cost.

Just that one job, for example, required building materials to cover up the squirrels' passageway in the roof along with two roofers, a bucket truck and operator, and Wolff. These not-so-rare occurrences can add up over the course of a year, Young says.

Still, it's an accepted part of the university budget. After all, it would be hard to imagine life on campus without its little bushy-tailed celebrities.

Mike Ransdell '90A, 95G has been collecting U of L squirrel stories since one obstinate critter refused to give up his spot on Ransdell's car hood as he was trying to leave campus one day. After a lengthy encounter, Ransdell eventually won out. Today he is the communications coordinator at Louisville Collegiate School.