It wasn’t easy, being a squirrel. This came to mind while I was in the middle of a road, with a bicycle approaching on the left and a car coming in from the right. I needed a way to get out without getting squashed. My great aunt’s cousin’s daughter’s sister’s brother-in-law’s son was run over by a car. You could still see the print of the squirrel grounded into the street if you walk around the corner, stretched out like he was running at full speed. His family still leaves a rose petal on the place where it happened every Wednesday.

I did not want to end up like my distant relative.

So there I was, sitting out there like a bump in the gray asphalt street. Usually, I would opt for the bicycle—they are slower and the riders usually pay more attention anyhow—but this had to be an exception. The rider was listening to music, but his loud boom-boom bass still leaked out from inside his earbuds.

Boom boom, whap, a-boom boom whap.

Needless to say, the annoying rhythm did hot help me out of my dilemma. I finally ducked between the wheels of the car as it passed, going at least 20 miles an hour. Which meant over the speed limit. I know what the speed limit is. I chewed on the sign posted at the intersection every day. It said 20 miles an hour until Serena peeled the paint off half of the zero and scraped at it around the edges, and then it said 21. Serena did her peel-and-scrape job as part of her community service hours. She earned them after seriously damaging the front porch of a house. Then the owners of the house put foamy goop that dried into foamy not-goop on where she nibbled it. Then she nibbled the foamy not-goop, and that earned her another hour of community service work.

            Anyways, the peel-and-scrape job counts as community service because it got less drivers fined. Most of them don’t go 20 miles an hour, they go 21 because they are humans and have to rush, rush, rush. So if one of them gets pulled over, they just say, “Dude, I was going the speed limit!” and they are off the hook because any human with a pair of eyes and their ridiculous forward vision methods, no matter how hurried, can see that the speed limit is 21. Aren’t squirrels so good at these kind of things?

I have other squirrel survival stories. How Harold almost didn’t make it out of the bayou because it was so cold and he was basically freezing, but then larger bird of prey scooped him up but then dropped him unintentionally because its feet were getting frostbite. Harold got a lift on a passing mosquito truck and made it home okay.

Or how Nutso almost fell out of a tree during a hurricane but then the tree fell down instead of Nutso, who escaped being hit by an inch. He ran away and took shelter under a lawn chair until the storm let up. Nutso is my brother. He’s nuts.

Or how the stray dogs were after Sally, but she climbed a tree and threw acorns at them until the dogs went away. She didn’t eat the acorns after she threw them. She said that they would taste like dog slobber, and she would not want to ingest any canine DNA by accident. I told her that she probably had already ingested canine DNA, but she wouldn’t buy it because of her history as a squirrel with great smarts and great amounts of caution. She even made a pie chart for me, but it was not especially realistic.

I’m Maple, by the way. A gray squirrel with a love for adventure and a dislike towards unripe pineapple guavas. You don’t want to eat an unripe pineapple guava. Trust me.

I was barely on the other side of the street when Serena took the local telephone line towards me. She scampered down the pole and bounded over to me.

“Most esteemed comrade,” she began. Serena has a liking for big words. “I am reluctant to inform you of an immediate and urgent family emergency. Nutso, your beloved–”

“I don’t belove Nutso.” I interrupted.

“Ah.” Serena composed herself. “Your not-beloved brother, Nutso, has be-fallen himself from his humble nest.” Her speech adapted an old English tone. “He beg-eth you to come therefore and console his hopefully-beloved mother, who hath weep-eth herself from a broken heart.”

I sighed. “Is Nutso okay?”

“Nutso hath tumbled from the greatest of tree limbs. His arm is most broken.”

“Any traffic getting to the old nest?”

“A power outage by the nail salon place is all that requires a roundabout path. The electricians are working on it most rapidly, nevertheless, I highly suggest a detour.”

“Which detour?”

            “Telephone pole down and around the food truck should be all that is required.”

“Thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” Here Serena departed and left me to navigate. I got around the taco place sure enough, but encountered a bit of trouble on Crazy Car Street. Crazy Car Street was three blocks away from Not-Gooped House. It was four blocks away from Screaming Kid Park. A car passed under me as I swayed atop the telephone wires. I recognized it as Bird Poopy Car. It lived at Not-Gooped House.

Back to the matter at hand.

So there I was, sitting on the wire yards above the world, not very excited to see my brother. And what do I see but some pigeons, sitting on the wire. Sitting like I was, but for no particular reason.

I dislike all birds, but I detest pegeons. They coo and they croon and waddle around like they have nothing better to do in their life. Which they don’t. My life had purpose. My journey had purpose. And they were sitting in the way.

“Hey,” I called. I hunkered down and scrunched my nose, trying to look mean. “Move yourself. You’re in my way.”

One of the largest birds turned towards me. “Oh, really? Get back down and go on the ground, if you’re in such a hurry.”

I almost didn’t give them the satisfaction of looking back, but I did. I saw the telephone pole—my way down—way over at the other side of the driveway I was crossing. It would take so long to get back. And Nutso would be positively impatient and my mother would be bawling. But then, was I in such a hurry? I had nothing to look forward to back at the old tree where Nutso was at this moment pretending he was in agonizing pain. I shared no sympathy, brought forth no empathy toward him. I turned to go. Go back to my tree, to my cozy nest, my nuts, my home.

But then, my family. My home, or my family? Craziness, or regret, or peace, or guilt?

I walked three steps away from my brother and my mother and my memories.

No. What was I doing? No-no-no!

I wheeled around. Charged at the silly birds. “I said, move!” I screeched. I brandished my claws. I bared my teeth. I chattered. I roared.

They moved.

And then I was running back. Running and running. And when I finally reached my destination, and saw my mother peeking over the edge of her nest, smiling, I knew that I had made the right choice.