“Never did he fail to respond savagely to the chatter of the squirrel he had first met on the blasted pine.” – Jack London, "White Fang"
I'm happy to tell you the bulk of my book manuscript has been accepted. There is a punch list to be completed, but nothing onerous. This means I will be spending more time in front of the computer, trying not to be distracted by the squirrels.
This is a squirrel's nest (a "drey," it's called) in my line of sight. See this view from just over my desktop:

Every time I look up I see it. Today it's windy and the branch it's anchored to is swaying. Very dramatic. I imagine tiny squirrel babies (a "kit," a typical litter is 4 kits) pink and huddled, holding on for dear life. It's going to be as low as four degrees, so I hope they're warm. The other day I noticed another squirrel sunning itself on the big tree next to the tree this nest is in. It was in front of a hollow, almost like it's blocking the entrance from cold winds. (they sometimes nest in tree hollows too)
Knowing this swaying nest's next door neighbors are in a cozy tree hollow, I'm bothered by their choice of tree. I don't know trees well, but another neighbor has two mighty oaks in front. While walking Wilson up and down the block (the old man prefers short walks now) I found 2 nests there. That makes sense. Those oaks barely sway in the wind. There are dozens of strong oaks, lindens, and fir trees around. Whatever river-birch-like-thing I see from my desk is, well, it's the low rent district. With such a flimsy base, how are those squirrels going to make it in their brief stint on this competitive world? (American Red squirrels have a 3-5 year lifespan)
Right now I see four of them jumping from branch to branch, up and down, then back again. Should they be frolicking? Have they gathered enough nuts? Are they a family of ne'er-do-wells looked down on by their industrious neighbors? Why don't they want more from life?
Whatever their disposition, Wilson the ABC hates them with a white-hot passion. When they scamper along the back fence his creaky old bones come to life, and he sprints at them, barking his face off. If he could read better he would chastise me for the time I've spent thinking about the tree rats.
Therefore, in his honor, I'll stop.
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