Lefty the Squirrel by Bobill

Photos by Bobill

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I had just woke up and my eyes had barely adjusted to the light when I detected a movement near the door that opens onto my sundeck. When my vision focused I saw the source of the movement; a large gray squirrel stood a little distance inside the room shaking his tail at me. The opening behind the squirrel reminded me that I had not closed the sliding door before I went to bed. When the squirrel went down on his all fours and started to inch across the room, I realized his objective; it was an open bag of unshelled roasted peanuts laying on the floor in the adjoining hallway. It dawned on me at that moment that I had to spoil the squirrel's mission, for if he gained the hall he would have the run of the entire house. That was not a pleasant prospect for I had seen the havoc a frightened squirrel can create when he's trapped in a house.
   I had to act quickly, so I lunged out of bed, raced across the room, and positioned myself between the squirrel and the opening to the hall. The squirrel stopped and stood up - probably to admire my athletic agility. He gave me a do-you-know-who-you're-messing-with look. At this point you might be asking the question, why didn't I simply close the door. The answer is simple: It didn't cross my mind; I was busy formulating a strategy. It's my nature to overlook the most simple and direct solution to a problem in favor of one that's more difficult to carry out and more likely to fail.
  The squirrel and I stood and faced each other for several moments - each sizing up his adversary. The squirrel looked about the room and began to explore ways he might get around me. He disappeared into the bathroom, and  reappeared shaking his head. I didn't know whether that was because he disapproved of the condition of the facility or because he didn't find another way out. He trotted to the other side of the room, stopping briefly at the exit to the sundeck. He leaped onto the bed, felt the spring's response, and bounced about, as if on a trampoline. He leaped onto the dresser and turned to face me. Then his face lit up as he spied his image in the mirror out of the corner of one eye. He stood up and faced the mirror and performed a high-stepping march in place. He grinned - grimaced - bared his teeth - bobbed his head  back and  forth - and stuck out his tongue and wrinkled his nose.
   At length the squirrel returned to the business at hand. He turned to face me and feigned a leap right at my face, dropped to the floor, and returned to his old position in front of me. All the while, I had been going over each step of my plan to outsmart this little fellow. I walked backward through the door and into the hall - feeling for the bag of peanuts with my right foot - while keeping a wary eye on my opponent. When I felt the bag, I squatted down and fumbled through the peanuts until I felt what I thought would be a good one for my purpose. That purpose was to throw the peanut through the opening onto the deck, at which point the squirrel would chase the nut onto the deck. I would close the sliding door, and the problem would be solved.
   I stayed in a squatting position and duck-walked back into the bedroom to face my opponent. He had not moved, and his eyes darted back and forth between my eyes and the peanut, which I held, exposed, in my right hand. I positioned the nut between the thumb and first two fingers of my right hand and rolled it around until I got the right grip. I cocked my arm, and the squirrel stretched his two front legs into the air without taking his eyes off the peanut. I faked to throw, but he didn't flinch - faked again - no flinch. I cocked my arm again and launched the peanut. My lack of experience with the smaller, lighter ball combined with a weak throwing arm to produce a low trajectory, and the squirrel stretched his full length and intercepted the peanut in his left hand with no apparent effort. He grinned at me and pumped his left arm twice.
  After Lefty had foiled my plans and demonstrated his athletic prowess, you might think he would have been satisfied by what he'd accomplished. But no, he popped the peanut into his mouth, and with both hands, rolled it around until he was satisfied it was secure. He dropped to his all fours and flexed his leg muscles. He wrinkled his nose and shook his tail violently and mumbled something that I couldn't understand - but which I knew was trash-talk. He shook his tail again, this time with a circular motion that reminded me of a rear-facing propeller on an airplane. He turned to his left and faked a run, turned 180 degrees and faked a run to his right. He now turned and stared right into my eyes - and faked a run directly at me. The move caught me off guard and I sprawled over backward and had to watch in despair as Lefty scampered around  me and into the hall.
   I lay there and watched as Lefty raised both arms straight up into the air to signal a touchdown. No challenge from me. Lefty took the ball from his mouth with his left hand, pumped twice, slammed the ball to the turf, and danced a cha cha. He dashed over and scooped up the ball, scurried around me and through the bedroom, onto the sun deck and leaped onto a rail. Lefty then did something you don't see much at football games these days - he proceeded to devour the game ball.
   I still see Lefty from time to time, but he never taunts me or even lets on that he remembers our contest. But I won't forget it, and sometimes when I'm eating roasted peanuts I'll roll a peanut around between the thumb and first two fingers of my left hand - feeling for the stitches.