Squirrel City

Things in this squirrel farm of a city have become extremely intense.
I always believed that their antics were random acts of hunger
motivated vandalism. I would even sometimes break into the irritation
I feel for them to acknowledge that yes, their poofy little tails
probably do shiver sadly on cold winter nights.

Never again will I look out on a rainy day and think of the poor
helpless squirrels. For, I now know, that they sit in those trees
embittered by our indoor resources, plotting their sweet revenge.

My realization started with a tiny noise under a table. Looking
towards the noise I ventured closer. Like a flash the little rat faced
monster, ran from room to room and, through my kitchen. I reached the
back porch just in time to see its clawed back feet propelling its garbage and vengence seeped body out of the window, so it might hide and wait for its next attack.

Little did I know, this was only a distraction. Seconds after the
first squirrel escaped me, I heard tiny footsteps on the roof above
and a small pounce as another soldier of rabies jumped down into an
upstairs bedroom. My constant mistrust of their goings on had alerted
me to the intruder at almost the same instant as the visiting neighbor
cat became aware, and so we raced together up the stairs.

I think I can describe both of our reactions as horror when we
discovered the apparent squirrel ring leader, seated a top my sleeping
son's buttocks, staring at him and plotting his evil doings and rolling his
tiny squirrelly hands.

Having selected my home as their own winter rodent sanctuary the squirrels show great unalterableness. This initial plan to devour the inhabitants and move in thereafter was thwarted by Leroy, the neighbor cat. Since this massive setback the squirrels have been attempting to negotiate a more peaceful settlement. Having learned something from history I have not made any compromises to my position in their favor.

With their food and supplies dwindling, and the time of panicked adrenaline charged rioting giving way to a more listless poking about for an acorn possibly forgotten in a clever hiding spot, the squirrels start to seem a bit more sympathetic again. Until I am in the kitchen and hear a strange scratching at the door and think that Leroy has come for a visit only to be tricked into opening for a squirrel. Or until I sit near a window and they pose on the sill outside with their best sad eyes, and I look deeply into the black watery depths and feel the quiet desire to spread disease through tooth to human contact.

The total amount of time that a squirrel can possibly sit and look into the eyes of a human and attempt to look harmless, pathetic and sweet is, by my best research, forty five seconds. As the seconds click by past twenty five, the tail starts to twitch with the burning sensation of bottled hatred and resentment. The fur slowly rises around the shoulders. After this the whole body seems to jerk every few seconds with the strain of holding back the fury deep inside.

If they could only grow a bit larger. If only their teeth could bite a bit deeper. If only they could get a bit more protein than the occasional taco left out in the alley, to build their devious little brains. If only one more blessing of strength or wit were given to these wily little devils it would be the end of us all.