I wonder what it’s like to be a black squirrel? Black squirrels are rare in any other part of the world except around the Great Lakes region. They are unique. They may even be smarter than their brown cousins. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a brown squirrel in months. It is late afternoon and the foraging and chasing and the checking in on the children is almost at an end. The days are getting ever shorter and the temperature is creeping its way down to single digits. It is almost time to start raking up the leaves again.
In a few decades, maybe sooner, the world will be this rodent’s oyster. On second thought, squirrels could be quite tasty, if that’s all there is to eat. They are lucky now though. They spend their whole days not giving a fig for the human world. Oh sure, we are always around, in the background, part of the backdrop. They just watch out for us and act accordingly if they come across our paths. I look right at them when they cross my path. They freeze to discern my next move. They stare briefly at me, long ratty tail batting back and forth spasmodically. Would that it could be a real connection. If I flinch, they dash, fast as a bullet. If I stay perfectly still, except for talking, they’ll stare back for a bit longer. It’s not the infernal noise from my face that scares them off. Maybe they are just doing what I do when I hear birdsong. Linger. Perhaps they are just fascinated by the strange sounds we make at each other or in their direction.
I always win the staring contest. They have no time to waste with humans. Humans just get in the way. In any case, running at twenty miles per hour, the squirrel is always faster than me.