One fall afternoon, long ago, I was out by the old oak tree, cleaning up the yard—a tedious, dusty job. I had stopped for a break, sitting right on the grass, having a cup of coffee and a piece of pie—apple, if you must know—and I was just watching the squirrels.
One particularly brazen little guy—the size of my fist—came right up, bold as anything. He stopped maybe three feet from me, staring at the pie. I thought, nah, he won't. So, I took a big, visible bite.
Well, this little tyrant didn't run. He just stood up on his hind legs, looked me right in the eye, and let out this sharp, single chirp, like he was issuing a formal complaint about my greed.
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the coffee. I broke off a tiny, tiny corner of the crust and left it for him. He snatched it, went halfway up the oak, and just sat there, looking down at me as he ate, completely judgmental.
The purest truth of that story? The universe never runs out of ways to remind you that you aren't the center of creation. And sometimes, the sassiest souls wear fur.
Jessica Carey
