Monday, August 17, 2009


He's taunting me. I leave the front door open to let in the sunlight through the storm door. When I walk by, he doesn't budge. He dares me to come running out the door, cursing and waving my fists at him.

Sometimes I chase him all the way to the dogwood tree, shaking it until he runs up into the neighboring pine.

Sometimes I just sigh in defeat and kick the storm door. Those times, he sits still on the railing, staring me down, never missing a beat in the rhythmic devouring of the leaf he has stripped from my hibiscus.

I hate that damn squirrel.

"Squirrel" is the newest word in Little Bird's vocabulary. He has learned to go to the front door and yell it out to me, just to see me come running to save another branch of my soon to be naked topiaries. He steps aside and chants, "Squirrel, squirrel, squirrel," rolling the r's in that odd little baby way that he does. He likes it when I make it all the way to the tree shaking.

Gibson stands next to him, drooling. I should let him take care of that squirrel.

It was only the one on the right for awhile. However, today, when I opened the front door for the first time, there he was, hiding behind the planter on the left. He peeped around it, and I swear on my grandmother's box of handwritten recipes, he waved.

I really hate that damn squirrel.

Two weeks ago, my front stoop was flanked by two beautiful hibiscus topiaries full of lovely deep pink blossoms. Today, I didn't even bother to sweep it off or pull the weeds before taking pictures. It wouldn't have mattered. My flowers have been ravaged.

The biggest surprised is that the squirrel didn't stop and pose as I snapped photos of the devastation he has wrought.

He had better watch out. I'm planning my revenge at this very moment, and he just might find himself making a lovely rug for some Barbie's Dream House living room.

Damn squirrel.