Still Thinking

The squirrel keeps coming back. On the fence. He comes in the morning like clockwork. Like the frayed edges of burnt caffeine withdrawal. He comes and twitters his whiskers, whisks his tail like an egg beater into thin air, churning trouble with his beady little eyes and a no good maniacal laugh. And my pugs just lose their damn minds. Behind the glass doors they hollar and bay and cuss. Their eyes protrude further than usual: out to the edge of their snout, out where a glistening snot sprays with each snort. Even their tails uncurl and drop like punctuation digging into the dirt. Not to stop a sentence, but to start a new one. A new one that begins, “Die, motherscratcher.” Meanwhile the squirrel decides to chance it. He shimmies down the fence like a cheap dress after a dollar-menu meal. He shimmies down the fence and grabs an acorn. Then he turns towards the door, fully facing my pugs , who squeal like wrestlers circling the ring, and he just eats the acorn. Takes his time with it, ...