’tis the season. The squoil season, that is. I mean we literally have squirrels here year round but in the fall they are EVERYWHERE. Don’t ask me why. I am not an expert.

My brother had four dogs in his adult life. Sam was the second and he was a CHARACTER. Well, Alfred (his fourth dog) was even more of a character but this is (mostly) not about Alfred.

So my brother and his family (and Sam) were visiting us one beautiful fall day and leaves were falling and squirrels were everywhere. Sam was going absolutely NUTSO every time he saw a squirrel on our front porch. I couldn’t figger this out (yes, I am sorta stoopid) and asked why he was going so crazy. Didn’t they have squirrels at their house (45 minutes north of ours)? The answer was no. Why? Because HE (Sam the dog) is there. He wasn’t eating them or anything, I think he was just scaring them. I THINK! I do remember when he was introduced to Izzy (mouse’s pet rat) and opened his mouth wide as if to say, “Thank you for the treat!” So who knows.

I won’t go into all of Alfred’s eccentricities, at least not tonight. I don’t know what he thought about squirrels. I do remember when he encountered a pine marten on the cabin road. A huge commotion ensued.

Bonus: my parents’ four granddaughters’ (aka my daughters and nieces) early pronunciations of squirrel in birth order: 1) shirl, 2) cirker, 3) squirrel, 4) [shriek]

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