Squirrel
I was followed by a squirrel this morning on the way to work. For like a quarter of a mile.
He was the champion distance runner of squirrels.
So I'd feel bad for him running all that way, and I'd stop. And then he'd stop. And sort of look around. And act nondescript. If squirrels could whistle, I'm sure he would have been.
I'd start walking again, and as soon as I wasn't looking, I'd hear the patter patter of this squirrel scampering along the wet sidewalk after me.
I finally stopped and turned around and waited for this squirrel to get his business over with. If I was destined to be assassinated by the Six Million Dollar Squirrel, then I might as well not prolong the agony. After only a little hesitation the squirrel ended up walking right up to me, standing nearly between my feet and staring right up at my face. He had this look to him like, "Look buddy, I know you've gotta have a granola bar or crackers or something in that bag of yours. Sunflower seeds? Something. Fork it over."
I didn't have anything, though, and by the time I neared the edge of the park, he finally gave up on me, and ran back toward the playground.
I told my coworkers about this tonight over an after-work beer.
"It was one of those funny black squirrels, too," I said.
"Oh, the black ones? Yeah, they've been here, oh, ten, fifteen years. . . ."
"So they haven't always been here?" I asked.
"No, there only used to be the mean little brown ones."
"Where'd they come from, then?"
"Nuclear accident? Space aliens? Who knows."
He was the champion distance runner of squirrels.
So I'd feel bad for him running all that way, and I'd stop. And then he'd stop. And sort of look around. And act nondescript. If squirrels could whistle, I'm sure he would have been.
I'd start walking again, and as soon as I wasn't looking, I'd hear the patter patter of this squirrel scampering along the wet sidewalk after me.
I finally stopped and turned around and waited for this squirrel to get his business over with. If I was destined to be assassinated by the Six Million Dollar Squirrel, then I might as well not prolong the agony. After only a little hesitation the squirrel ended up walking right up to me, standing nearly between my feet and staring right up at my face. He had this look to him like, "Look buddy, I know you've gotta have a granola bar or crackers or something in that bag of yours. Sunflower seeds? Something. Fork it over."
I didn't have anything, though, and by the time I neared the edge of the park, he finally gave up on me, and ran back toward the playground.
I told my coworkers about this tonight over an after-work beer.
"It was one of those funny black squirrels, too," I said.
"Oh, the black ones? Yeah, they've been here, oh, ten, fifteen years. . . ."
"So they haven't always been here?" I asked.
"No, there only used to be the mean little brown ones."
"Where'd they come from, then?"
"Nuclear accident? Space aliens? Who knows."