I RECENTLY suffered a home invasion by one of the four rodents of the apocalypse, which are mice, rats, squirrels, and so-called “roof rats” (rats fed up with the increase in flooding of sewer properties caused by climate change) . . I was blessed with the deceptively cutest of these four: squirrels. Im. My. Ceiling.
(Reader, I want to be clear that “squirrels in my blanket” is not a reference to my scattered thoughts, but to literal bush-tailed rodents making stumbling runs in the crawl space above a bedroom.)
Squirrels strike a rare balance: they’re both adorable and terrifying (like some toddlers I know). One day they’re hanging upside down in front of the window to say hello, or sitting and nibbling on a nut they’re just holding in their paws, so adorable! Next, a squirrel appears out of nowhere as I enjoy a sunny day on my front steps, his eyes on mine. It jumps forward and then freezes. Forward and freeze, forward and freeze, like a glittery squirrel robot. It’s not put off by “Shoo!” or “What do you want from meeeee?” Blank-eyed it just keeps coming – for the peanuts imagining it’s in my pockets? For my soul? Or are there now carnivorous squirrels? I walk in and lock the door.
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