These Goddamn Neighborhood Squirrels

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• October 21, 2021

These goddamn neighborhood squirrels. And generally, I like squirrels. They’re usually to themselves and act as a cute whimsical creature to any setting. But let me tell you about these Astoria squirrels.

For reasons unknown, the stoop of the house I live in is the hot spot for squirrels to feast. Look at this:

They eat in this one spot and leave a giant mess and then leave. They’ve been doing this for months. Months. They only eat specifically at this one corner and their leftovers stain the stoop where they were. The woman who lives next door to me tried to put down coffee grinds. We both sweep the stoop and I’ve gone as far as scrubbing the stoop with soap and boiling water, which didn’t really work at all as far as remedying the stain.

Day after day, they are back, snacking in that one spot. They’re mocking, I’m telling you, mocking me! Sometimes, I catch them in the at and they give me this look like, “oh yeah, what are you going to do about it?”

“Why? I just don’t understand! There’s a whole park, literally right there, with a water front view! Why is this the spot? Why are you doing this?”

Perhaps I’ve accidentally run over one of their family members. To my memory, I haven’t recently run over any squirrels but I’m sure at least one squirrel has met their fatality under my wheel. But it’s not like I was aiming for them! Most squirrels are at least decent when it comes to crossing the road.

Oh, these goddamn neighborhood squirrels.

They prep for winter with such an arrogance. The days getting shorter doesn’t seem to bother them at all. They flow as easily with the change of the seasons as the tide dances with the moon. How I hate them just a little bit for it. How I hate that they get to sleep through it. Still, this isn’t even a winter I want to sleep through. This winter I’ll approach with the ease of a Victorian era writer. Or so I tell myself. Or so I tell you.

The average lifespan of a squirrel is 13 years. So, then, how many more years will they mock me, eating from the railing, dirtying my stoop. I say mine as if I own the place. I don’t. I’m a renter. But seven and a half years I’ve lived here. Home is here. These squirrels litter my home like, “remember you own nothing and nature owns you.”

These goddamn neighborhood squirrels.

They think they’re so fucking cute. And they are pretty cute for what it’s worth. Cuteness, I know, is some sort of super power. I know it. I know it well. Because I’ve always been pretty cute. Especially when I was small. But even in those teenaged years and early twenties, when my body refused to develop and I wanted to be sexy and look like a woman, when I remained frail and awkward, I was still cute in my awkward shyness. That even being quiet, or especially in being quiet, people were sweet on me because I was cute, skittish even at times— like a goddamn neighborhood squirrel.