There is a long-standing tradition in my family of love-hate relationships with squirrels. For years my Dad has been engaged in an epic battle with the ones that inhabit our backyard: who can outsmart who when it comes to the precious contents of my father's many birdfeeders; the squirrels, with each daring leap and break-in, taunting my Dad as he raps on the bay window and curses them a bit too loudly. Even so, I love when he calls me 'squirrelly,' knowing it's a term of endearment for those crazy things that bring him joy.
My mom, generally passive about the birdseed battle, will admit the critter's inherent cuteness--but at the same time exhibits a somewhat worrisome amount of delight whenever the neighbor's cat can catch one. "Lenny! Lenny," we once heard her shout with tremendous glee, "you've GOT to come and see this!"
My sister Jenny, on the other hand, ever-empathic and lacking my mother's apparent Darwinian-bloodlust, has strategized for over a year now on how to painlessly evict the mangy pack tearing up her attic insulation to build an increasingly complex network of nests. On some days she'll call, exhausted by their insidiousness mess. Still others, she can't help but marvel at their industriousness and cries when she finds a dead one by her door.
I'm not sure what my brother's specific take on the squirrel is--love, hate, or a little of both-- but I'm willing to bet his experience as a volunteer at the wildlife preserve gives him some degree of expertise on their entertaining and crafty nature. So I'm sure he'll agree, as would all of the Swansons who have studied the creature in detail, that Celie's most recent impression is right on.
