This happened a few weeks ago. I am apprehensive about mentioning it, even now: the squirrels bogart the wireless from out back, up high in the trees that may soon crash through the roof. They hack my e-mail and agree to transfer funds to BANK OF LAGOS. They have grown as big as cats. They slam into the storm door, scrambling upwards to the decorative gourd display. They stash dirty magazines in their obscene nests. Sometimes they look pretty at sunset, silhouettes balancing along a branch as they scurry home. They look pretty until I remember the pumpkin dragged from the porch and halfway down the walk, seeds everywhere, stringy guts tangling around my shoe. The squirrels are preparing a list of demands. I keep looking for the note.
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