my windowsill is a squirrel highway
When I come downstairs in the morning and open the kitchen blinds, the animal kingdom rushes to my welcome. No, literally: squirrels and birds spot the twitch of the curtains and flock to the back balcony in droves. Then they see it’s me and back off, disappointed.
I’m married to Dr. Doolittle, you see. After our last dog passed, Howie had nowhere to put his overflowing pet love. So he adopted the neighbourhood wildlife. It started with a sprinkle of bagel crumbs on the porch. Then it graduated to hazelnuts, then to whole-shell walnuts that he personally cracked fresh everyday for them. I put my foot down when he started offering my organic pecan halves at $40 a pound.
He has named most of the squirrels, but I swear it’s bullshit and they’re different ones everyday. There’s probably a billboard sign somewhere in Jarry Park that reads “open bar thattaway!” with a big red arrow. They have such little fear of Howie that they take the nuts directly from his hands. He likes the feeling of their claws on his fingertips.
Though our row-house sits mid-block, flanked by proud gardeners on both sides who despair at Howie’s disregard for pest control, somehow the message has spread among the beasties from back lane to front garden. We have a straight-up sparrow condo complex in our little cedar bush in front. Squirrels perch on their hind legs and peer through our front window. They run to and fro along our windowsill like it’s a highway.
Part of me feels it’s a takeover. One day, they’ll figure out how to open the door, and will settle in, Parasite-style. The other part of me feels that soon, like Cinderella, Howie will be able to train them all to mow the lawn, repair our clothes and pay our taxes while we sleep. Now THAT would be worth a few pecans.