Whilst it was not easy for this country boy to leave the New Hampshire Seacoast for the concrete jungle of Washington, D.C., after some careful searching I found a small green oasis just outside the city. It was a beautiful, quiet neighborhood and I believed peace would reign in my new kingdom. It did not. Walking to the complex’s trash room one afternoon, I confronted an unexpected enemy — not a mugger or an escaped convict, but a smaller, furrier foe: a Jamaican squirrel. I know this not because he was wearing an Africa flag hat or singing Bob Marley songs for spare change on the Metro, but because his tail fur was dreadlocked.
Since I am from New Hampshire and squirrels are our natural allies, I whistled at him. He hissed. I took another couple steps closer. City squirrel stood up on his hind legs and postured like a 1920s boxer. Worried that he might be rabid, I backed down. I dumped the bags of trash in the back of my wife’s car, planning to return in a couple hours. Unfortunately, it slipped my mind. When we opened it up again two 90-degree days later, the First Mate was not happy. The car smelled like a morgue bus broken down in the desert.
Drink warning. Also a note that sometimes appeasement does work… (but keep in mind that squirrels are not generally religious fanatics).
Via Zombyboy.
