Showdown on Bedford Park Boulevard
It was a crisp fall morning in the Bronx, a bit cold but still nice enough to have the windows open before we left for school.
I was living off campus in a three-story brownstone, starting my first year at Fordham University. My roommates had already headed out and I was about to sit down to a quick breakfast.
I went back to my bedroom for a moment to get a book. By the time I returned, a squirrel had planted himself squarely in the middle of the kitchen table.
He must have climbed the fire escape and entered the open window. Judging from the puddle on the table, he had either sampled my orange juice or marked his newfound territory in a most vulgar manner. Now he was eating my toast.
“Shoo!” I commanded. The squirrel ignored me and continued stuffing rye bread in his cheeks.
“Shoo!” I repeated, this time waving my hands and approaching a bit closer...
He stopped rather deliberately, looking a bit peeved and swiveled his head slowly to peer at the interruption to his meal.
In all my country years of squirrel interaction, I’d never actually looked one in the eye. They usually scurried away rather meekly, fearful of a big, mighty human.
But this squirrel’s stare was as cold as his tail was fluffy. I was suddenly reminded, 'I was no longer in Kansas, Toto.' I was nose-to-nose with a New York City tree dwelling rodent. 'A rat in the hood.'
“Shoo!” I said again, not sure what else to say. I did not speak squirrel, especially NYC-squirrel.
Without losing eye contact, he tossed the toast to the side and turned methodically, squaring his body to face me.
I sensed a showdown.
In our back woods, my dad once cut down a tree that a squirrel was residing in. The squirrel leaped from the falling tree and ran for what he thought was another tree.
It was my dad’s leg. He got about hip high before he realized trees don’t usually wear jeans, gave my dad the squirrel equivalent of the “What have I done? !” and leaped again.
Happy ending -- my dad lived, the squirrel relocated and the balance of power between Man and Mini-fur-things was maintained.
In the city, however, the pecking order had seemed to switch. With his cheeks full of bread, this furry urban pint sized bully waddled toward me, swinging his hips like a gunslinger.
He stopped at the edge of the table, still glaring, and made a weird chirping sound. It sounded something like, “Bring it on.”
No way, I thought, am I getting dissed by an arrogant metro-rodent. I laughed and said, “You are SO out of your league, tree-freak.”
I know he understood because he tapped his chest twice and chirped again.
Then he drew in a deep breath, as deep as he could take with a mouth full of stolen rye.
Suddenly, he leapt from the table and ran straight at me, chirping nonstop at the top of his little lungs, spewing bits of toast everywhere.
Surprised and stumbling, I backpedaled into the hallway as fast as I could.
He was inches from me when I slammed the bathroom door in his face, knocking still more bread bits from his cheek.
He scratched viciously at the door, calling me all sorts of bad names in squirrel-talk.
Finally the chattering stopped. I waited a few more minutes, looking about for a weapon with which to defend myself.
I thought about tossing a towel over him. Not my towel, of course.
That could be risky if he escaped, so I passed on the idea.
I grabbed my roommate’s toothbrush to defend myself and peeked out the door.
The little fur-pig was scarfing down the rest of my breakfast.
He glowered back at me, trying to chirp, but was too full to say much.
Instead, in a gesture of squirrelly rebellion, he pushed over my glass of juice, as if to say, “Let this be a warning.”
I thought I could slink down the hallway to my room, get my keys and leave.
He saw me try to escape and jumped to the floor again, running toward me, amazingly quick for a chubby chunk of fur.
I was forced to retreat back into the bathroom.
This went on for nearly forty minutes. That corpulent rodent held rule over my house, keeping me trapped in the bathroom, while he trashed the kitchen.
I was now quite late for class. Finally, he was gone.
The first facet of an event is the experience itself. The rest, the sizzle to the steak as it were, is in the telling.
I suppose I could have lied to my professor and invented a believable story to explain my tardiness.
In hindsight that would have served me better than the peals of laughter that met my telling of the showdown with that little urban bulldozing furball.
And to the person who left the stuffed squirrel in my seat in class the next day -- I WILL find you.
I don’t need to pay a therapist to give me crap. I have a roommate that does if for free...
Have a great day!