Open Letter to the Squirrel at 13 Mooreland Avenue

I saw your footprints. I saw them in the snow, and I know what you’re doing. Please don’t deny it. You make us both look silly. Where are you going? Come back here. Do you think this is a joke, some kind of funny dance that ends with us in a warm embrace? Well, we’re not dance partners, I’m not laughing, and the only punch line is me in tears, like always. This charade’s gone on long enough, and I’m tired. Tired of the sneaking around, the lurking in the shadows, the furtive glances and the scurrying away from confrontation.

We were happy here once, weren’t we? Content to be ourselves – you running and climbing and me trying to keep this house in order. But then something changed. I tried to ignore the noises late at night, pretending they were in my head. How could anyone with such zest for life be anything but wonderful? I was wrong, the first of many mistakes I made in this relationship. But no longer.

Fine. I admit it. I tried to trap you – the steel cage and peanut butter were a bad idea – I know that now. No, I wasn’t really going to hurt you – just scare you a little. Remember how we talked about that farm way upstate? We’d take a drive – me in the driver’s seat and you in the trunk under a blanket. We’d go up there to check things out – you wouldn’t have to stay. It was just a chance for a break – the two of us deserved it. But you ruined it, eating all the peanut butter and making a mockery of my plan. The trap sits discarded and useless. I can still see the outline of your tiny paw prints in the Skippy you left behind. And they make me sad.

This isn’t just me and you. My daughter sleeps upstairs, and I can't imagine what she thinks when she hears you rummaging around, doing whatever it is you do up there in the dark. If we don’t fix this, she’ll hold a grudge against you forever. Because I know – I lived this at her age. My dad, the window, the pellet gun and the cursing, crying and frustration – kids don’t forget that stuff.

And now you do this? Your daily backyard spectacle? For everyone in the neighborhood to see? My god, what happened to you?

I take the time to try to make this place look better, to invite some bird friends over to enjoy a meal, and you go and ruin it like you always do. So I guess I’m the fool. I thought the birds were hungry – that they really liked the seeds. But no. I came home and saw you embarrassing yourself on the feeder, stuffing your little nose into its holes, cramming every morsel into your inflated cheeks. I bet you’d climb inside that feeder and roll around like a kid in a McDonaldland Ball Pit if you had the chance. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You warm-blooded, diurnal rodent sicko. I don’t even know you anymore.

See? There I go. Calling you names. You make me so angry I can’t help myself – it used to be so different. I was the one defending you. “Critter!” they’d call you, but I wouldn’t listen. “Varmint!” they’d howl, but I’d tell a funny story about you and that acorn. I don’t have the energy anymore. Not after this.

Can’t you even appreciate the money I spent on that Baffler for the feeder? I saw you staring at me from the bushes that day, those dark, soulless eyes filled with betrayal. For a few days I was happy – friendly birds stopped by for a snack, and you were off frolicking with your pals, or so I thought. You were waiting, weren’t you?

Am I impressed that you can jump from the tree to the feeder, that your tiny fingers and toes can grip the tube as it sways back and forth? Well, maybe. You always were a great jumper. Stop! I won’t get pulled into this again. Sometimes I wonder if you even care if you hurt yourself. What’s next? Power lines? Busy intersections? When does it end?

I already told you. I don’t want you as my pet – I don’t want to control you, tell you where to spend your nights, or who you can cavort with. Shack up with the moles next door for all I care – but leave my house and yard alone. Decent birds stopped coming by weeks ago. Now only the crows visit. Nobody deserves crows.

I could buy a BB gun. I’m a pretty good shot, for the record. Your little behind-the-tree circling move wouldn’t be so clever anymore. Just try to jump from branch to branch in a cast and crutches. I’ll be the one letting out a high-pitched chattering screech, and you’ll be the one in misery.

I’m giving you a choice. Leave my feeder alone and find another home to wreck or continue on this destructive path. Don’t force me to take extreme measures. Maybe that peanut butter won’t be filled with wholesome peanutty goodness the next time. Maybe the tree trunk will be lined with axle grease. Or maybe my dad’ll come up for a long weekend. He’ll bring along a friend this time, a friend named Mr. 1981 Pellet Gun. And then you’ll be sorry.

It hurts me to write this. I’ll give you one week to decide. My patience, like the wild bird seed, has been pillaged and left on the ground for scavengers. For the sake of the community, for me, my family, and for your well-being, I hope you’ll make the right choice.