August 13, 2023
I have spent the past ten minutes negotiating with my dog over a dead squirrel.
Tommy found it in the woods during our walk and picked it up like a trophy. I swooped in and grabbed his head awkwardly to stop him from chomping down on it.
I do not have gloves.
I do not want to touch the decaying squirrel.
And he has absolutely no intention of giving it up.
So we stand there:
him, proud and unbothered, jaw locked like a vice;
me, increasingly desperate, trying to convince my eighty-pound doodle through sheer persuasion that this is not something we need to bring home.
Eventually, somehow, I win.
Back in the car, Tommy pants happily in the back seat, squirrel-free at last, while my own heartbeat slowly settles.
“Feckin’ squirrels,” I mutter as I pull out of the parking lot.
I grew up in Minnesota, where squirrels are so common they barely register as wildlife.
They are pests.
Menaces.
Tiny furry inevitabilities.
We build elaborate contraptions to stop them from stealing birdseed. They shred patio furniture, tunnel into attics, and scream at dogs from tree branches thirty feet overhead like tiny woodland antagonists.
I once watched a red squirrel — barely a quarter the size of the gray squirrel — bully the larger animal into surrendering its nut through pure confidence alone.
Another time, shortly after Halloween, I watched a squirrel get drunk off a rotting pumpkin and repeatedly fail to climb a tree, sliding backward every attempt like a furry college sophmore after bottomless mimosas.
One summer, a gray squirrel missing its tail began appearing in our maple tree every morning. I started scattering peanuts at the base for the little guy.
When I left home to travel, I didn’t give squirrels a second thought.
May 5, 2024
I’m in a wildlife park near Remagen, Germany, feeding a highland cow whose tongue is dexterous enough to qualify as its own organism.
Its horns are wider than my arm span. Its bangs hang over its eyes like an emo haircut from 2007. I giggle as its rough tongue scoops feed from my palm.
Then suddenly:
“MEKS! MEKS! MEKS! MIRA!”
“Qué ves, Ama?”
“¡HAY UNA ARDILLA!”
…
“There’s… a squirrel?”
My friend Ama and her German partner Koni rush toward a grove of trees, pointing excitedly at an entirely ordinary gray squirrel twitching its tail overhead.
“Meks, you don’t understand,” Koni explains. “They’re rare here. It’s special to see one.”
I stare up at the little menace in mild disbelief.
This thing had cousins that once caused thousands of dollars in attic repairs back home.
Still, I stand there with them for a moment, watching it leap branch to branch with effortless grace.
March 22, 2026
The air in Vancouver bites colder than I expect.
I’m walking the Huckleberry Trail with friends, hands shoved deep into my pockets, breath curling in pale clouds ahead of me.
“Hey kids,” Logan says suddenly. “Look! A squirrel!”
The children sprint ahead.
Halfway up a tree sits a squirrel perfectly still for once.
“It’s black,” I say.
“Yup,” Logan replies casually. “That’s how you know they’re Canadian.”
Apparently black squirrels are normal here.
I stare at the animal, feeling strangely cheated.
Back home, spotting a black squirrel felt rare enough to text somebody about.
Now I’m looking at one while a local barely breaks stride.
The squirrel flicks its tail and vanishes up the tree.
April 25, 2026
My friends and I are wandering through Crystal Lake Cemetery in Minneapolis when I spot it.
“Woah. Beck. Madi. Look.”
At first glance, it’s an ordinary gray squirrel.
Then it turns.
Its tail is bright blonde.
Not pale gray.
Not silver.
Blonde.
Like badly bleached summer hair.
Another appears nearby with the same strange coloring.
“It’s the college kid coming home for summer break,” Madi says. “Starting with highlights before going full blonde.”
“Wouldn’t want to upset the parents too much,” Becky adds.
We stand there staring at the squirrels far longer than any of us probably should.
May 05, 2026
I’m sitting in the backyard watching the same maple tree I’ve looked at for most of my life.
The sun is finally warm again after a long winter. Robins chatter overhead. A squirrel noses through the grass searching for something it buried months ago and probably forgot about.
Suddenly, it freezes upright, tail twitching.
Then it darts across the lawn and disappears up the maple tree.
I catch myself watching until the branches stop moving.
I chuckle.
Feckin’ squirrels.