There is this intrepid little squirrel who regularly visits our back deck. When we first moved here, I very foolishly placed the remainder of my birdseed out there. (It was gone the next day.) That alone was enough to teach that guy to return frequently, hoping against hope for another such food bonanza. He returns each morning, a pilgrim to his mecca, and scours the grill, bushy tail alert.
It took the girls a little longer to catch on to this visitor. Once they did, they were on, baby. At first, their frenzied barking and menacing expressions of intent were enough to scare him away; he's no fool. However, after a while this squirrel figured out that no matter how loud, or desperate, or menacing the girls were, they could not propel themselves through the glass of the French doors.
This spawned a whole new phase in their relationship. Now the squirrel comes not just for food, for hope, for gratitude, but also for the simple glee of tormenting the dogs. He will pause, plump furry little body mere feet away from the salivating girls, and preen, flick a pretend bit of leaf mulch away, tilt his head, "What, oh? Are there dogs here?" he seems to be saying. "I didn't notice."
And behind the glass doors there is something akin to a shark feeding frenzy. Occasionally the girls will turn on each other.
"Get out of my freaking way, will you?" snarls one. "I want that freaking squirrel!"
"Look, poop breath, get off my stinking toe!" snarls the other. "That squirrel is mine!"
Cleaning the glass is just an exercise in futility. As I write, evidence of the valiant attempts of two girls trying to rid the world of one invasive squirrel are smeared across it at nose level for all to see. They did their best.
