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!