Apparently, the squirrels of the world have decided to go after the writers.
From Lilith Saintcrow's LOL funny Squirrel Matrix to Orson Scott Card's Squirrel Genius, the internet is abuzz with discussion of the latest incidents.
I take this to mean that I'm in good company. My husband's office is in the back of the house; it's a former screen porch that was winterized about a decade ago. Rough, exposed beams still frame the high ceiling and the upper half of the room.
One night last month, my husband was working late by the light of a solitary desk lamp, and something moved along the beams. This thing scratched its way upside-down around the edge of the room, much like one of your creepier vampires might. But, when he shone a light in the direction of the sound, there was a flash of movement and whatever-it-was disappeared.
Suitably wigged out, he kept a wary eye, and eventually saw the perpetrator again. A mother squirrel had set up a nest behind one of my husband's picture frames. When he moved the frame (not knowing she was there) she crouched over her two babies and stared him down.
I repeat, this bold mama squirrel held off a man several dozen times her size simply with the look in her eye. You gotta respect that. My husband hastily backed away and called in his own scary female.
The mother squirrel and I sized each other up for a minute. Then I opened the window and closed the door behind me. An hour later, mama and babies had left the premises.
I like to think that she'll tell the other squirrels that I'm okay--even if I am a writer.
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