Not being the Old Timer in this case, I will report what Dear Ole Dad did.
Once upon a time our street was a neat horse-shoe. A big patch of woods filled the interior. Then the government built Interstate 526 through it. All the squirrels moved quite literally into our backyard. Feeding the chickens became "dodge the sticks" because the squirrels wanted us to drop the food and leave so they could bully the chickens and grab some food, too.
Dad started carrying his pistol and shooting squirrels. Once a week, thrice a week, whenever the squirrels forgot he was a threat, Dad would whip out the pistol and off a squirrel. "Processed" squirrels were neatly wrapped in a bread wrapped and dropped in the deep freeze. When we had eight it was time to have squirrel for dinner.
Dad has thinned the squirrel population back to "normal nuisance levels". I hope this helps!
Edited to fix typo. Dad hasn't hunted squirrels with a gun since his squirrel dog died. Buddy was a Pekinese. I ask you to consider that a moment, lol. Buddy was creamy white and had an actual snout (not smush-faced as usual for the breed). He learned killing squirrels made Mom and Dad happy. There is a picture some place of the Great White Hunter trying to tear the snapping turtle (frying pan size) out of Mom's hands. Mom said she never worried about being attacked by dragons. (Me: Mom, there are no dragons in South Carolina...) Mom: "Don't tell Buddy. He works so had to scare off dragons everytime he runs outside!"
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