The last couple of days have been extraordinarily warm and bright. So much so that I’ve been moving the herb plants out of the living room and onto the patio, plopping myself down on a lawn chair from time to time, enjoying the early Springtime sunshine. This morning, while sitting on the deck and toying with a chilled tangerine, I had to get up to answer the phone.
I laid the tangerine on the arm of an Adirondack chair.
Down from a tree. Ker-PLOP! Faster than a speeding bullet. Lickety-splitting tiny, tiny feet clicking across the hand rail — I watched as Buster the Squirrel pounced on my waiting tangerine, impaling the entire fruit in his spikey, little front teeth, leaped once again onto the hand rail, springing into a nearby oak tree, cantankerously taking a seat on a not-too-close branch to make sure I see the bright carrot-colored globe now clasped between his paws.
“Buster, you . . . old coot!” He chatters something I can not make out because his jaws are once again clamped tightly on the fruit . “Give me back my tangerine!”
Buster the Bandit flicks his tail, which is the ultimate insult in squirrel body language. Up the tree he scampers, way up to the spring-green fuzzy top where he climbs — butt-first — into his dead-leaf-woven squirrel nest. For a moment the tangerine appears to plug up Buster’s entrance-way. Gotcha!
But the tangerine is sucked through Buster’s front door like a winking orange eyeball.