Nuts

I think I am being stalked by a squirrel. Shut up! It's not funny! Ok, I suppose it is a little bit. But squirrels are scary, rodenty creatures who think that a hairy tail will disguise the fact that they're nothing more than rats that climb trees.

I hate rats. Thirteen years in NYC will do that to a person. At first, it was a wretched fascination: watch the rats scurry in the subway tunnels, down by the tracks. Safe distance between us. Later, when the rats were on the platform itself, I knew there was no such thing as safe. I used to weigh invitations to social events by comparing how fun it would be to the likelihood that I'd be coming home after dark on trash night. There, in the pile of garbage bags, rats would cavort wildly, dashing between black plastic Gladware and the vacant lot in the center of my block. I walked in the middle of the street to avoid them.

Squirrels, however, are cute and cuddly. Not to me, of course, but I'm making a point. We teach children to love the little squirrels and sing songs about their bushy tails. They frolic in parks, in backyards, in the safe spaces of sunlight. There is no safe space.

It started when I went to get the mail. I love to get the mail (I lead a quiet life and enjoy the simple pleasures). I would see a squirrel regularly on the path to the mailbox, as it meandered through our well-maintained jungle. It wasn't scared of me, and would wait until the last minute of my approach to scurry off. Until the day it didn't. Didn't scurry off. 

Odd, I thought. He's not just going to stay on the path. But he did. Shit. I was going to have to pass him. I imagined that this was the part where he leapt onto my face and tore out my hair with his tiny claws. He didn't do that, of course. But he did not move. He stood, holding his ground, like a gangland warrior. Then, once I'd passed him, he came after me. Slowly, at first. When I turned and realized he was closing the distance between us, I ran. I'm sure he stood there, laughing, shaking his fist: "My turf! My land! Stay off!"

Now when I get the mail, I shake my keys. I am so far from the streets of Harlem, and yet I must resort to my old ways just to survive. I have not seen him for days, but I fear him lurking under every bush, every vine.

Earlier this week, I sat on my screen porch, drinking water and watching life in the parking lot. A squirrel appeared suddenly on the inch-wide ledge of my porch, nimbly running back and forth, though we're two stories up. I did not like this invasion of my territory, but I let him continue, watching with the same wretched fascination I once reserved for his urban cousins. Then he crawled onto the screen, eyes trained on me. "There's nothing for you here," I said aloud. He did not flinch. He was intent on the screen, and I knew he was looking for a way to break through the thin wire mesh. If I didn't act quickly, I was about to full of rabies and missing several toes. I rose, and clapped my hands loudly, hoping the advantage of my human size would be enough. Luckily, it was. He disappeared. 

Now when I get the mail, I take my pepper spray. I will not be a victim.