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I Loathe Squirrels

I loathe squirrels. And I especially enjoy the word loathe, which, to me, feels superior to “hate”, a short, choppy, forthright invective. Loathe. It darkly drips off one’s tongue with disdain; hostility is inherent. Admittedly, hate is a strong word but loathe infers more, in my opinion.

Do you believe that a person, known to you, could, for a myriad of reasons (generally there is unrequited love involved) plot a vendetta against you? Could focus their murky, disgruntled, dark thoughts strategically against you, so that some weirdness befalls you? Not dangerous things, mind you, but incidences that may put a scare in you. There was a time when I believed I was the target of this type of dark spell. Peculiar things happened to me during that time.

And I know who did it, and I believe it to be true.

Like the time a squirrel dropped out of a tree and fell on my head, skimming through my hair and plopping in the water at my feet. I was standing knee deep in a lake, talking with a friend. Have you ever seen a wet squirrel? Don’t ask. That day there was screaming and splashing and running involved. Consequently, I have a loathsome reaction to squirrels. A person could casually remark “Oh look at the squirrel, isn’t he cute?” “Rat with a tail!” I spit out vehemently.

Recently my falling squirrel story tumbled out to a friend. “Yes, I have good reason to loathe squirrels” I answered in response to her question regarding my vicious anti squirrel comment. Then I followed it up with the story of the fish dropping on the windshield of my car, which had happened the same year that the squirrel fell on my head. Would it be more prudent to stifle my weird animal stories?

I was on my way home from work early one evening to my remote log cabin on a lake. I made the turn into the short road called Evanston Avenue (an anomaly for such a runt of a road to be labeled an avenue) and slowed to coast down the slight hill. SPLAT! I couldn’t see what it was right away, but then… it was a fish! A dead fish. A sizable fish, like eight inches. I pulled into my short, rutted driveway and got out to inspect the mess on my windshield in disbelief. Shrugged my shoulders, found a spade and dust pan, scraped it off, took it down to the lake and threw it in.

The next day I mentioned the incident to my bosses and a coworker, all men. They looked at me oddly. Tom said with a stricken look “Ooo, that’s bad, I mean it’s like sleeping with the fishes or something.” I couldn’t take that seriously. Various theories ensued but the one that made the most sense was that a passing seagull or hawk had inadvertently dropped the fish as he was flying up from the lake, and it fell on my car. Okay, that was logical I suppose.

But what are the odds? Of a squirrel falling on one’s head and a fish falling on one’s windshield?

I tell you, it could have been a small curse. And I know who did it, and I believe it to be true.

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