You crawled in through my screenless bedroom window at
5:30am.
Me: groggy, disoriented and wearing mismatched
pj’s.
You must be the same squirrel who has watched me from
the fire escape for the past week as I put on my make-up each morning. Are you
my rodent stalker? I am unclear as to what you wanted. An early morning tryst?
Some leftover pizza? The use of my dvd player and unopened Netflix deliveries?
(I know how wildlife enjoys a good documentary.) The security grate prevented
you from gaining full access to my boudoir and my heart. There you sat trapped
in the window, neither inside nor outside; caught in a cruel squirrely limbo.
The barking of my mini daschsunds did not discourage
you, for yours is a heart of steel. Neither did my cat who sat silently
stalking you from the corner. You would not be deterred and continued to rattle
the grate in a fruitless effort to obtain your heart’s desire. We gazed
into each others eyes (yours: beady. Mine: crusty.) for 15 minutes before you
made your defeated retreat back into the harsh dawn. I’m sorry my fear of
The Rabies prevented our connection. I fear ours is a love that cannot be
understood in this mad, mad world.
Hit me up if you read this. I’ll leave you some
slightly salted almonds on the sill.
The
squirrels on my fire escape
have opposable thumbs—they can open pickle jars, unlock car doors,
separate paper from plastic. But they can’t read! So she’s out of
luck—although I applaud her for lowering mate standards to include
friends of the woodland. Best of luck!