Finders Keepers

Everyone I see on social media seems to have a better life than I do. When I was in my 20’s, there was no known way of seeing how someone lived their life unless you were physically there to see it. Therefore, all the people in one’s world were in a state of suspended animation in the mind of others. If you were happy and doing well in December of one year, everyone thought of you as happy and doing well whenever they thought about you. There was no proof of the opposite like there is now, or, in my case, lack of proof.

I don’t want people seeing my house. If I did, I would have people over for brunch on Sundays as a regular event. But I don’t do that because I am not a fan of an open border policy when it comes to my house. The idea of a friend of friend being allowed carte blanche to wander my house at their leisure, touching my stuff, perhaps taking my stuff, who knows, maybe planning to come back and steal all my stuff. It is, there, no fun having people over. An invitation into someone’s home makes strangers think they are family and that simply isn’t true.

If I don’t know you, your comments on my art or my dog or my countertops is not going to mean much to me. Consider the source, my Mother used to always say. I prefer to meet people at coffee shops or restaurants, places that are public and neutral, that don’t make me worry about what I can’t control. That is what it comes down to- control. The ease with which people relax into your space when invited to is alarming to me. I cannot go into someone else’s home and enjoy it, I just can’t. I don’t know if my hosts had sex on the couch I am politely sitting on, I don’t know if their bathroom stunk to high heavens until the plumber showed up, perhaps minutes before I arrived. Did they have children in their house because kids are the ultimate gross spreaders, they spread disgusting wherever they go, touching themselves, then touching everything they see.

My personal hangups mean that my life at home is quiet. My house is marred solely by my hands, my furniture stained by me alone, the germs that surround me at home are there by invitation only. I keep things as clean as I want them which gives me a sense of calm. One day, however, my quiet world was interrupted by the strangest squirrel doing who burgled his way into my house and decided to drink my beer and eat my pizza.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing when I was startled awake in the middle of the night. It sounded like someone was cooking a meal in my kitchen. I had taken something to help my sleep and wasn’t fully awake when I stumbled downstairs to see what all the noise was. In retrospect, I should’ve called the police or our neighborhood watch but instead, I walked into the chaos a mean-looking squirrel had caused in my once pristine kitchen. There were empty cans of beer all over the place and the leftover pizza I was saving was almost gone, the near empty box strewn on the ground.

The culprit was apparently drunk and stuffed as he hissed at me, then fell over backwards and passed out. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I went and grabbed my cell phone to take some pictures or film him. As I was focusing in on the snoring squirrel, he suddenly looked right at me and, without moving his lips, his thought popped up in my brain.

“Got any more beer?” he asked.

WHAT? Wait, what the hell is going on?? How am I able to hear the thoughts of this small animal? This is  so freakin bizarre!! I was so perplexed I stumbled and almost fell, dropping my phone in the process.

“You’re telling me! Who puts pineapple on their pizza? Disgusting!!” the squirrel somehow inferring his thoughts into my mind.

“It is fantastic, you are just giving a conditioned response to mixing fruit with bread. Wait, how the hell are we communicating?” I said, out loud, forgetting I was still filming with my phone.

“We animals have always been able to communicate using only our brains. You humans are generally to dense to ever notice. You are the exception. Aren’t you special?” he asked, sardonically.

“Wow, that’s a lot of attitude from someone who broke into my house!” I yelled.

“Whatever. Do you have any more beer?” he asked, still irritated, at what, I had no idea.

I figured, why the hell not and went and got him another beer, my last. I opened it for him and after a long pull, he looked me straight in the eye.

“You know your house is built on land my family lived on for generations and generations? That measn that, technically, this kitchen, this pizza, this sad, cheap beer- this is all mine! Mine, not yours, mine!!!” hissing again at the end of his tirade.

“Squirrel, I am going to give you to the count of five-“ I was overtalked by increasingly maniacal squirrel with a chip on his shoulder about perceived wrongs I had nothing to do with.

“Nothing to do with, really? Cuz from where I sit, it looks like you have a pretty cushy life going on here, what with your roof and cool air and refrigerator. Y’now where I live? In a crappy tree near the interstate. So who really benefitted here, human, you or me??? Hmmmmm??” he nearly growled.

‘Oh my God, yes, then, squirrel, I am sorry someone built this house on your family’s ancestral land,” I said, fairly sincerely, as I did feel a little bad.

“I’m not sure that is really gonna cut it,” the squirrel said, throwing his empty beer bottle against the wall, smashing glass everywhere.

“What the hell, squirrel, what am I supposed to do about a bunch of land developers usurping on the land of wildlife? What would you have me do? Move out? Is there room in the tree where you live, squirrel, is there?” I asked, completely sick of the little shit.

The shifty little bugger had held onto the neck of the bottle he broke and pounced on me, aiming for my jugular vein. Instinctually, I tried to smack him away like a volleyball but he was intent. He sunk his teeth into my right hand and wouldn’t let go. I smacked him on the wall, repeatedly, then grabbed a skewer from next to the stove and stabbed the little asshole straight through the side, piercing his heart. He released his hold on my hand (he gave me rabies, by the way, which took forever to get over) and died on my kitchen floor. I cleaned everything up, glad to have a few more hours to sleep. I completely forgot my phone was filming until the next morning.

As a lark, I uploaded the video to my Facebook page. Within an hour, it had 100 likes. By the time I went to bed, it was at 3,381 likes. The next morning, it had gone viral. I guess people thought it was pretty funny that I helped a squirrel get drunk then got attacked by that same squirrel. No one had heard him threaten me, no one knew he had a chip on his shoulder about humans. It just looked like some strange woman apologizing to a drunk racoon for living in a house. There is just no accounting for online taste.