It’s Sunday, and the Squirrels are Spouting Poetry

Day 74

It’s a Sunday that’s living up to its namesake. The winged tweeters are singing in the boles of the great maple, the fallen detritus upon of which the Eichhörnchen are nibbling in ecstasy, their fluffy tails twitching in the high grass. Which reminds me… I need to mow.

With a slightly guilty snicker, I ease open the back door, swivel my eyes to our dozing German shepherd, Mia, and whisper:

“Mia, squirrel. Eichhörnchen.”

So hastily does she barrel roll her lanky mass from her place of repose that she nearly tumbles into the curio containing our prized collection of Irish china. My mind wanders fondly to an old Scooby Doo episode (it doesn’t matter which), wherein the dopey mutt spins his paws in place like the paddles of a Mississippi steamer.

She gains her traction, our hardwood floor taking the brunt of it, and zips out the door. The hapless squirrels, in a feat of athletic brilliance, scatter like furry seeds in a gale, their nimble claws scratching frantically on the ruffled bark of the great maple as they retreat to safety. Their continued existence assured for at least another few moments, one of them begins animatedly chattering what I can only imagine to be Fuck off, you puff-tailed asshat.

The more poetic of the two, mortified at the vulgarity of his friend yet sympathetic to the circumstances, takes a few tiny breaths, skitters a bit lower on the tree, and chatters eloquently,

“Terror of the lawn, clad in dappled hues of sable and ochre, wherefore comest thou upon us in our time of leisure, as a knave in the darkness would a mewling kit, from the rear and without the courtesy of a warning bellow? Nary even a squeak was heard from the hinges of the great portal to that domicile you calleth your—”

“Woof! Woof!” Mia thunders. Lacking fluency in squirrel, she is oblivious to her prey’s ardent plea.

I chuckle, amused at having a miniature episode of National Geographic unwind itself in my backyard. How lovely it is of me, I think, to give nature an opportunity to play itself out like this. It’s good for the squirrels to stay sharp and fit. If I weren’t so benevolent, they’d grow fat and lazy, and the cats across the street would finish them off.

I saunter out near the tree and look up at the pair of squirrels, acrobatically situated in gravity-defying poses, tails lashing, tiny fists pumping. I can almost hear them yelling at me.

“It’s my lawn, squirrel friends. I don’t have to get off it if I don’t want to.”

The poetic one chirps at me about the evils of ending a sentence in a preposition.

“Baw-roo-roo!” arfs Mia, jumping up onto the tree with her forepaws.

“Mia, you’ll need a jetpack to get up to those two,” I say, conjuring up the image in my mind. That would be terrifying for all involved.

I pause for a moment, face uplifted to the sun, to catch a bit of my Vitamin D for the day, then saunter back inside, letting Mia and the squirrels sort things over.

The sailor-mouth and poet squirrels eventually vent their spleen, then leap, backflip, and pirouette up to their secluded aerie, where the other squirrels are just sitting down to a nice pot of acorn soup.

“I swear to all that is nutty and delicious, I will gouge that beast’s eyes out!” sailor squirrel cried to all assembled.

“Another fright from the black beast?” asked mama squirrel with a chuckle, baby squirrel cowering in her apron.

“I remember the good old days, before that beast moved in. The lawn was ours for the taking,” mused grandpa squirrel.

“It’ll be ours again,” sailor squirrel muttered darkly. “Just you wait. Just you wait…”

Grandpa squirrel sighed. “I suppose that means you’ll be calling up the mouse guard again, though I can’t see what good it will do. A bunch of mice with tiny hairpins is no match for that beast.”

Sailor squirrel harrumphed and sat moodily in the corner, refusing his soup.

After supper, as the squirrels laid down for the night, they could hear the tiny humming of poet squirrel. It sounded remarkably like the opening number to Hamilton.

This is but a small piece of my lifelong daily writing practice. If you enjoyed this, you may also like some of my other writing, which includes short fiction, novel excerpts, and other essays.