One of my favorite movies has, as a bit player, a squirrel. In National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, the family cry is “SQUIRREL!” followed by that animal exploding from the interior of a Christmas tree. The squirrels in my old neighborhood displayed antics that amused me in much the same way as the movie squirrel. They were grey squirrels, with bushy tails in good times, and sparse tails in lean times. My apartment building was at the nexus of two “pocket parks” that people frequented; some people made temporary homes in these parks. The squirrels were accustomed to the presence of humans and, while cautious, were not in the least skittish. Not so, the red squirrels in my current micro-hood.
My micro-hood squirrels are a jittery bunch, and have the explosive lift of Olympic triple-jumpers. When I walk past the great tree that dominates the circular driveway, “Red” launches himself onto the grass, skitters across the gravel and vaults onto another tree. On my return, “Red” startles from the grass and clears the gravel driveway in an astounding leap, sticks the landing on a tree and immediately swivels around the tree to hide. The Russian judge would not hesitate to give him a 9. (I say “him,” but I cannot tell the gender of a squirrel. I was able to determine it one magnificently memorable time in my life, but my editor forbade the telling of the story.)
These squirrels live in a city: chances are pretty good that they are going to come into some contact with a bi-ped. A couple of years ago, while “touristing” on the grounds of the Washington Monument in Washington, D.C. with my grandpups, I acceded to their demands for a snack. At the food truck, a silent gathering of furry beings crept closer to us as we selected some goodies. Sitting on a bench with my two grandglories, I unwrapped the snacks, an act that emboldened the fuzzy snack-snatchers. The squirrels surrounded us, big eyeballs beseeching, demanding. These were gray squirrels, which had apparently grown accustomed to being fed by the patrons of the food trucks. They expected no less from my grandbeauties and me and we happily complied.
As the D.C. snackers snapped up crackers from our shoe tops, I was reminded of when my eldest daughter was very young, and her mother and I took her on a camping trip to Yosemite National Park. There, we stopped to see “The Lone Pine,” which was growing from a granite outcropping. This popular tourist destination had squirrels as an active part of the scenery. I have a picture of my two-year-old sitting on her mother’s lap, a swarm of squirrels surrounding them, looking for goodies. The older of those two humans seems to be the only one happy to see that swarm. (Not sure if a big load of squirrels is called “a swarm.”)
Collisions between man and animal generally resolve themselves in favor of the human; we bring an overwhelming capacity for destruction to the meetings, except in the case of 600-lb. deer and car windshields. Wild animals show an appropriate prudence, for the most part, in avoiding close contact. And while the startled bear, which was merely doing what it does in the woods, terrifies me, the startled city squirrel amuses me. I think, “Dude: I live here. This cannot be the first time that you’ve seen me.”
I see these red rockets on my daily walks and I try to walk softly in their micro-hood, to assure them that I mean no harm. But when they burst into frenzied flight, I cannot help but hear the Griswold family bellowing:
“SQUIRREL!”