While the rest of the country shivers, I am enjoying our regularly scheduled February heatwave. Cut-offs, cranberry juice and the new issue of Real Simple to read in the yard: bliss. So…why am I in here with the computer again? Oh, right. Rabies.
Yeah, you heard it here first. I was sitting outside enjoying the sunshine and the frolicsome gladness of the thousands of furry little squirrels who use my yard as their stomping grounds when I noticed some frolicking happening near the orange tree that did not look so gladsome. In fact, it looked terrifying. This one squirrel — who, I noticed, was now the only squirrel in the yard, everyone else having silently ditched me, like thanks for letting me know there was a crazy on the loose, you other squirrels — was kind of bouncing back and forth between two tree trunks as if he desperately wanted to climb one and could not. Like he’d forgotten how to be a squirrel. Like he was in the grips of rabies.
His antics took him closer, and I noticed he would periodically do this little, I am not kidding, back flip, like all this rabid energy was just too much and needed an outlet. Naturally, I moved much closer to him and was disturbed to see he had no fear of me at all. (Neither do any of our other squirrels, but still.) Also, was that a little white patch by his mouth? Yes. Was it fur? Well, maybe. Fur, foam…my point here is that both words start with F.
So, yes, I am pretty sure he is rabid, or why would he be so weird? I ask you. I came inside right away, only pausing to read my magazine for another half-hour or so and finish my cranberry juice. He’s still out there somewhere, I assume, unless he left to terrify the elementary school across the street. But he’ll be back.
Well, I guess I am living in fear now. Drag.