They were exotic beauties rarely seen unless we went uptown to Central Park. I'd squeal and jump up and down at the sight of one, prompting my father to spit under his breath, "rats with fuzzy tails, that's all they are..."
Still, to me they were as magical as the fairy princesses in the picture books. Yet when Mrs. Fass at P.S. 110 on Broome Street gave me my first reader, "squirrel" was the one word I couldn't remember how to read. It was such a foreign concept.
Now, they are all over the city - the courtyard where I grew up, Union Square, Bleeker Street. And all I see are rats with fuzzy tails. Even with therapy, I've become my father.
3 comments:
would it be bad for me to say i hate them? ever since seeing one drag a dirty diaper out of a trash can shheesh.
they make me itchy in the city...
but, at my sister's house, with the acorn between their dexterous paws, their chirping from the fence around the garden... they recovered their charm.
I love 'em. Especially the ones in Stuyvesant Town. I never saw a black squirrel until a few years ago when I saw one there.
I live in California and the squirrels sit in the trees outside my window and eat oranges.
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