Tails from the Tree Mob

One Squirrel After Another

Has anyone else noticed the abundance of squirrels on campus? More than just a “oh look, a squirrel” level of squirrels. I’m talking ten-plagues-of-egypt kind of proportions. They’re everywhere: the clocktower, the trees, the sidewalks, inside your soul. I used to think they were cute little animals. Now, I know better. They’re watching, waiting, plotting.

I was sitting under a tree, minding my own business, enjoying the fresh air. I have a granola bar in my hands. That’s when I noticed them. One squirrel slowly approached me, pleading for a bite, its little hands clasped like a wide-eyed Dickensian orphan. I kindly stuck out my hand to see if it would come. Innocent, right? Wrong. Another squirrel pulls up, violent and adamant. It jumps all around my tree, but that’s when it hits me, it’s a distraction. As soon as I realize that, a third squirrel drops down like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, but furrier, and more vengeful. It knocks the granola bar out of my hands. I swear I hear a mini headset say, “target acquired.” They leave with their bounty, and I swear they are laughing as they run away, smugly.

It was then that I decided this was greater than just a lot of squirrels; it was an organization, a mafia. And I had just been mugged by its foot soldiers. Since then, I’ve seen nothing but signs. Turf War: One squirrel flashes a half-crushed peanut like it’s a switchblade, while another waves a half-eaten Pop-Tart. I hear one hiss, ‘This is acorn turf.’ They circle each other. Tails twitching, tensions rising.

They started noticing my noticing. I woke up to an acorn on my windowsill last week. Recruitment? Or a mere peace offering? What I thought was a gift turned out to be a test. The next day, I opened my backpack to find it full of leaves and a tiny scroll that read, “We know you have food, give us what you owe or pay the price.” 

Now, fast-forward to the present day, I pay tuition and squirrel tax. The cupboards that usually housed the endless supply of snacks were now barren and empty. The squirrels hadn’t just taken my food; they had taken my peace, my trust, and more so, my ability to sit under a tree without wondering if I’m being watched by a squirrel operative with a vendetta and an acorn. 

If you’re reading this, I fear it is already far too late. They know you know. The moment they saw you open this article, they marked you. I’m sorry to have done this; it was the only way to get the target off my back. Check your backpack. Check your windowsill. And for the love of snacks, never, ever make direct eye contact.

By: Lily Morris