The Secret Lives of Squirrels

I was walking in the park today when I spotted a baby squirrel trotting along the edges of the path. Naturally, I had to observe. So I stopped in my tracks, and the little thing came right up to me. Squirrels in the park aren’t bashful because they live amidst luxury. I mean think about it. They frolic in the trees surrounded by few roads (which is in my book their number one cause of death, judging by how many squirrel pancakes I’ve seen around these parts) and are fed by the many young, old, and just plain weird, crazy squirrelpeople of the park — the ones that carry around bread crumbs and nuts. You know who you are.

This little munchkin didn’t stop there, oh no! I’ve been told in the past (by my brother, namely) that I’m a “sturdy” girl. I won’t deny this, I’ve got a little meat on me; I never figured it would be enough to be mistaken for a tree trunk. Junior crawled atop my foot and straight up my leg! As soon as he reached my knee I jolted, and shook him off. Never know what those things are carrying — never know.

All this got me paranoid, pondering, fearful and I suddenly began noticing all squirrels. Like a fever. There was one with a scraggly tail, a fat one, a black one, a long, lean one. Which got me wondering: What goes on in squirrels’ lives? What?

Does Mo Scraggly snort cocaine in the Poison Ivy? Meanwhile, Fatty’s high up in the trees eating fudge stripes and Doritos, Momma squirrel’s yelling about Jr’s grades — which is why he ran away to me in the first place. Do they get their tails done — cut, shampooed, styled, etc. — at the Squalon? Shop for groceries along the river, go camping, play poker, fly kites, square dance? What. Goes. On.

Something tells me these thoughts are not worth my wondering…