Tales of Ella the Circus Dog
2006-06-07 10:43 PM
My Squirrel.
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Squirrel lives somewhere in the big sycamore tree that stands about four hundred Chihuahuas high and looking over into my backyard. He torments me every morning. Like this morning. It is early. I go outside as soon as the People open the back door to feed Bigblack. When the People go back inside, I am about to follow when I hear Squirrel. He does not bark. He chatters. It drives me nuts. He knows it. He loves it. He runs along the telephone lines above the back fence. I saw a Heeler do that once on ropes on Animal Planet, but in real life with a real Squirrel high above my head, it is not anywhere close to television, believe you me. This morning I chase him like every morning. From the fountain to the rocks to the bench to the path to the rocks to the bench. When he crosses the fence line and heads for the street, I wait. He’ll be back. He torments me, my Squirrel. When Cat was here, we would watch for him together, Cat on the big rock and me on the bench. Sometimes we traded places. Cat used to stare up at him as though he could make Squirrel fall, just by thinking it. I try the same thing, but I lack Cat’s focus. I am distracted by the People’s call, or by Poodle waddling outside to pee, or by Labrador pacing across my line of sight.
Labrador doesn’t chase my Squirrel, and I want to know why. She says squirrels have never held much for her, that when she was caged she used to watch them but now that she’s free, she can let them go free, too. Labrador is old and probably has fewer brains than I have. I know Squirrel would bite my back leg if I wasn’t careful.
When Poodle wanders up, I bite her back leg and pretend it belongs to Squirrel.
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