by Marilisa Sachteleben

Created on: August 14, 2009   Last Updated: October 23, 2009

Squirrels. Treetop terrorists. Garden Militia. The backyard telegraph. Plant paparazzi. Weighing in at about 1.5 pounds, a single squirrel in pursuit of an acorn or nest material becomes a whirling dervish. He can turn a tree into a vortex. A regiment of squirrels can make our backyard look like the epicenter of a hurricane.

Psychologically, the squirrel as a species is a textbook case. The squirrel is a paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of grandeur and persecution. Witness his frenzied chatter, his Napoleonic self-aggrandizement when your cat saunters across the yard. The cat is clearly in no mood to hunt and is completely ignoring the squirrel, but the little thespian loves an audience. He taunts and goads the cat until he gets a listless flick of the tail from the cat. The squirrel is also a bi-polar creature. He has periods of frenetic activity followed by bouts of tree-draping and slothfulness. Squirrels are a Freudian analyst's ambrosia.

Case in point. Last October, we carved our jack-o-lantern pumpkins on the picnic table. I noticed one inquisitive squirrel skulking unobtrusively in the background, eyeing the seeds and pulp as we scooped them from the pumpkin. The aroma of pumpkin, while not particularly enticing for humans, must smell like grilling steak to a squirrel. I'm sure he was licking his tiny chops in anticipation of the feast later.

When the jack-o-lanterns were carved and on display, my husband and I sat at the partially cleared picnic table to rest from our labors, chatting over coffee. This evidently was not part of the little pumpkin paparzzi's plan. The squirrel clearly expected us to go in the house, leaving the seed hoard to await his pleasure. We observed him and thought it might be fun to watch his seed gathering endeavors. He kept glancing suspiciously about, obviously hoping that no other squirrel would notice the plethora of seed. Finally, he could deny his avarice no longer and he ventured forth. We watched surreptitiously. As he began nonchalantly to collect seeds, I broached the subject.

'Hi you little cutie! You can have the seeds. Help yourself!'

The squirrel jumped back, affronted and indignant. 'Little cutie, indeed!' he seemed to say. He told me in very strong language and invective that I was to mind my own business, ignore him, go back to my coffee, etc. He ranted a little longer, venting his thoughts on seeds, humans, cats and life in general. Then in a petulant huff, he made for the maple tree, to salvage his shreds of dignity and lick his wounds.

Undaunted, I went to the maple tree to apologize for insulting him. He squawked at the further invasion of his privacy and made a grand leap for a nearby tree. Unfortunately, in his shaken aplomb and injured pride, he miscalculated the distance between the trees. After several thumps and crashes on the way down, he fell in an ignominious heap at the foot of the maple.

I have often explained the Newtonian laws in class: that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Never have I seen a clearer case of Newton's law in action. That squirrel literally rocketed up off the ground and into the tree yelling, screaming, cursing as he went. He couldn't have moved faster if he had bounced.

My husband and I convulsed in tears of helpless laughter didn't help the little squirrel's mood any, either. He was still loudly discussing it several hours later and complaining to anyone who would listen. We did leave the seeds out for awhile, but apparently the squirrel's bruised ego prevented him from sallying forth for another foray. The moral, of course is Biblical with a touch of Aesop: 'People in glass houses shouldn't eat seeds.' or 'Pride goeth before a fall.'

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