The Battle of the Squirrel and the Dog

The young squirrel skittered up the large, budding tree, then paused. He sniffed the air and brushed his delicate white whiskers with his paws, his fluffy tail twitching from side to side. He scampered forward a few paces along the branch to where the bird feeder hung from a short length of string. The bird feeder swung back and forth gently in the faint wind, and there was a vibrant red cardinal pecking cheerfully at the seeds.

A few days ago, the young squirrel had discovered how to access the seeds within, mainly the sunflower seeds with the black shells that he dearly loved. Since then, he had come every day, though he often had issues. Sometimes the two-legs-no-fur-Tim would come out and scare him away, or sometimes it would be the big, skinny gray dog. Other times neither showed up and then the squirrel would eat in peace. The young squirrel did not understand why two-legs-no-fur-Tim and the big dog did this—after all, they never ate the seeds. It was a dangerous business, but to the young squirrel the food was worth every second of heart-stopping fear he often had to endure.

Carefully, ever so cautiously, the young squirrel lowered himself to hang from his short, stubby back legs. He gripped the branch tightly while he stretched out his fluffy front paws towards the bird feeder. The bird feeder was shaped like a miniature house, with poles and slits on the side so the birds could eat. The roof hinged open into two parts, each slanted section of wood lifting up to grant access to the inside. That was how the two-legs-no-fur-Tim put the seeds in it—the young squirrel had watched him do it many times before.

The young squirrel grasped the lid and opened it, exposing the hundreds of savory seeds within. The young squirrel did not jump down into the feeder—it was far too small for that—so instead he kept hanging onto the branch with his back legs. The bird feeder lid leaned against his small body while the young squirrel feasted on the treasure trove of sunflower seeds.

The young squirrel looked comical, hanging upside down from the tree, his bushy tail swinging back and forth in the breeze. But he didn't care. From time to time he would look up and scent the air for any sign of a predator, but none showed themselves and the young squirrel began to feel safe. He relaxed his guard slightly.

A few minutes later, a small house finch with a red head and chest joined the squirrel, and they ate together, both mostly ignoring the other. The bird fluttered away soon after and the young squirrel was left alone again.

Suddenly, there was an explosion of fearsome noise as the two-legs-no-fur-Tim opened the den and the big dog hurtled out, yapping his head off. He was immense, with long, skinny legs and a thin, bony body. He had floppy gray ears with black tips and thick, heavy jowls that shook crazily whenever he barked—which happened to be quite often.

This creature was the young squirrel's worst nightmare. Never mind the two-legs-no-fur-Tim! He was nothing compared to this raging monster. All that mattered was escaping this huge bloodthirsty beast.

With a mighty leap, the young squirrel dashed away along the branch and found refuge among the higher boughs of the cottonwood tree. If he had been a little smarter, perhaps the young squirrel might have realized that the big dog (a Great Dane, though the young squirrel did not know that) could not have reached him, but still, he felt safer being higher. Now that he was out of reach of the terrible storm of fury, the young squirrel felt brave again. He did not venture down at all—that was still too dangerous—but stayed high in the tree, chattering angrily at the big dog that had ruined his feast.

At the base of the tree, the big dog growled and whined, wagging his whip-thin tail excitedly, but to no avail. He could not climb and the young squirrel would not come down.

Finally, the big dog left, defeated, slinking away to another part of the yard. Feeling very pleased with himself now that the threat was gone, the young squirrel swung nimbly back down to the branch the bird feeder hung from. He had just begun to reach for the delicious seeds once more when the big dog returned. Saliva fled from the dog's mouth as he bounded across the lawn, yipping and snarling, his great big paws tearing up clods of sod and throwing them in every direction.

The young squirrel squeaked sharply in mindless terror as the dog leaped to intercept the little thief. The squirrel whisked away, but, unfortunately, in his fear, he missed a rather important footing and slipped. He fell to the branch below, just within reach of the big dog. He scrambled away from the dog's rapid, furious advance, but he wasn't fast enough to save all of himself. The big dog's mouth closed sharply with an audible clop! and the young squirrel lost nearly an inch of his poor tail. Thankfully, however, most of it was just fluff, and the young squirrel retreated hastily to the safety of the high boughs, unharmed besides for his pride.

The young squirrel paced back and forth on his branch at the top of the tree, chittering madly. The big dog stood for a while, then laid down. He never once took his baleful eye off the young squirrel, whom he considered to be insolent and a great nuisance. Finally, feeling rather dejected and defeated, the young squirrel left, traveling through the trees to avoid nearing the ground.

Later that day, he had found a new yard—a yard with no hair-raising, horrible dogs—and a bird feeder practically bursting at the seams with sunflower seeds. The young squirrel pried off the top of the feeder and reached for the seeds, but then stopped as he picked up a new, terrifying scent.

This yard had a cat.

Mreow.