I was leaving my house this morning when I saw one of my yard squirrels at the base of the oak tree, text messaging away in his tiny Blackberry. "What's up, Skeet," I asked. He shook his head at me, mumbling and kept hitting the delete key rapidly with his tiny paw. "Have you ever gotten drunk, then dialed or text messaged someone," he asked me. "I try not to do things like that...doesn't seem like a smart move," I said. "Tell me about it," groaned Skeet as he kept pounding away at his keys.
I sat down on a stone next to him and asked him if he was going to be all right. I had to get to work. "Have you got a minute?" I looked at my watch and told him he'd have to be quick. "It all started yesterday. From my elevated vantage point in that tree in the back, I spied "her", sunning herself by the neighbor's pool. Her fur was so sleek and beautiful, she was so self-possessed: she was like a vision to me. I was transfixed. I know she was aware of me, though she pretended not to notice. I caught her tail flickering...you know how we squirrels do when we're on alert. In the hopes of securing her attention, I made a daring dive to the tree in her yard. Feigning nonchalance, I sailed through the late August air. My form was superb, by the way. While attempting to catch the next branch I fumbled a bit, the branch bent down under my weight, necessitating some awkward scrambling on my part, but I recovered nicely. I have to say, it was an impressive distance. I was magnificent. She, however, turned away in haughty disinterest, making a show of being engrossed in some newly fallen green acorns. Why do you chicks always have to play games?" He shot me another look and kept hitting the keys.
"So, what's the problem here?" I looked at my watch again. "The problem," he sighed, "is...the neighbors had a cook-out last night, and they leftbeer cans out on the picnic table overnight. I was feeling kind of down afterthat rejection, got into the beer and pretzel crumbs, turned on my Blackberry and kept texting my passion for her." "Uh oh," I uttered. "I looked at my Blackberry this morning and couldn'tbelieve the things I had been saying to her, " he moaned. "Alcohol can make you do stupid things, Skeet. You know that." "I don't know what's worse," he said, "Looking at my text log, or my head." I went back in the house and got him some baby aspirin and a demitasse of dark roast and left for work. I bet he'll be sleeping it off today.
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