Squirrel Expectations

Don’t feed the squirrels. Who hasn’t heard that before? It is such a simple rule, and yet it once changed the course of the world forever.

I had heard that rule ever since I was a young child. It was posted on every sign in every park across the city. The way it was repeated by both signage and my parents, you would think it was the most important rule of my life—especially when entering a park.

That day, when I entered Trident Park, I passed by the first of many signs as I usually did. I hardly gave them a glance. They were everywhere, after all—official notices with a picture of a cartoon squirrel holding an acorn above the bolded words: Do Not Feed The Squirrels.

I do not know why that day I didn’t follow the rule. I suppose I could blame it on many things. The lack of sleep. The poor news I’d received the day prior. The coffee with the milk in it, despite me telling the barista multiple times I was lactose intolerant. It doesn’t entirely matter at the end of the day.

I sat down on the nearest bench and tossed some of the nuts from the bag I was holding, not thinking anything of it. They landed in the grass, and a squirrel lifted its head. It slowly approached on all four legs.

“Well?” I said joking. “You going to thank me for that?”

To my astonishment, the squirrel then stood on its back two paws and responded.

“You would feed us that fatty grub? After centuries of discipline and daily conditioning? After we have trained hard every day to hone our furry bodies into utterly magnificent instruments of squirrel protection? To protect the Earth and your lives?”

I dropped the bag in my shock.

Two more squirrels then approached as well, standing behind the first like little henchmen. The first one resumed its speech.

“Do you know what that food would do to us? The potential cross contamination alone! Oils! Sesame! Don’t even get me started on the ratio of snack to fat!”

The squirrel to its left began scratching into the dirt with its claws. If I didn’t know any better, I would say it was taking notes for a future court case.

“Do you even understand what that would do to our landing performance??” it demanded.

I did not. Although, to be fair, I also didn’t know why I was being reprimanded by squirrels to begin with. “Who are you?” I asked. The three twitched their tails and ears indignantly.

“We are members of the Great Squirrel Army! Guardians and Protectors of Earth! The defenders of your fragile snack-based civilization.”

Superheroes? Protectors? Defenders? This seemed ridiculous and I was about to say so, when they continued as if they had read my mind.

“Have you ever seen a squirrel land? One knee bent, the other forward? Classic superhero pose. We were never hiding it.”

I thought back to every squirrel I had ever seen. It was true. They always landed in a superhero pose. We had even collected photos of them to post on the internet.

More squirrels were gathering around me as they talked.

“Did you know the superhero cape was inspired by our incredible, luxurious tails?” it continued. “Surely you can see the similarities.”

“It is true! Comic artists have consulted us for generations!” Another chirped and gave its tail a particularly impressive swoosh.

I looked at the tails, although my brain was still back on the fact that I was being lectured by wildlife.

“Uh,” I responded eloquently.

Even more squirrels congregated from trees, trash cans, bushes, and even the odd birdfeeder. The head squirrel gave two chirps.

Two broke off from the group and ran in front of an incoming bicycle, darting quickly back and forth in a tight zig-zag formation. I had seen squirrels do such things a dozen times, in front of other bicycles, cars, even people.

“Witness one of our classic training exercises,” the head squirrel said. “Tactical maneuvering practice, particularly in urban environments. You humans refer to it as scampering, as if it were some thoughtless act.”

The two squirrels returned to the group near the back, where they were praised or quietly admonished. I could have sworn I saw one of the squirrels get a congratulatory pat.

“You see now,” the squirrel continued as if there had been no interruption, “this park has never been just a place where humans gather on our sacred lands. It has always been a training ground. One of many similar places throughout the world.”

The squirrel pointed towards one of the signs with the smiling cartoon picture. “Those signs were meant to protect us! We tried to warn you. The message was passed down from human to human from your very earliest ancestors. Although its meaning has clearly vanished into history, we assumed that you would at least still follow the signs!”

An older squirrel approached and snatched the bag from where I had dropped it. It looked at it with an expression that I could only describe as disappointment and a touch of regret. One would think it was the key piece of evidence in a murder trial.

“You have interfered.”

“I’m sorry…?” I responded, still quite confused.

The older squirrel nodded as if my response was adequate. “By feeding us, you have not only potentially ruined our strict diet, but you have also offered us unauthorized sustenance. Thus, as the ancient laws clearly state, you have formally entered us into active protection status.”

I continued to stare, and tried to find an appropriate response, but before I could, the squirrel to its left continued, “We had nearly been finished with our training for this age, but alas. Now that you have fed us, we have been activated once more. Our training must continue from the beginning!”

A few sharp chirps rang out from a squirrel perched high on a tree branch, instantly followed by the rest of the squirrels scattering—by leaps, bounds, and vaults—to continue preparing for the great war they seemed certain was coming.

I learned a valuable lesson that day: never feed the squirrels. But if one must, always offer food of the highest quality.

Somewhere a pigeon pecking at breadcrumbs off the pavement paused. It looked up slowly and cooed, as if wondering whether their time had also finally come at last.