My Own Dr. Dolittle

I have a thing about squirrels. I don't mind them in my yard. I didn't even mind too much when the

super aggressive ones on campus used to follow me across the Oval.  But I just don't get the squirrels that hang out on the street. Not the dead ones, they have obvious reason to be there. I'm talking about the ones that just kind of sit in the street and either don't run until the last minute, or the ones who wait on the side of the road until your car is mere yards away, then launch themselves into the center of the street and attempt to dart back to safety (AKA suicidal squirrels). I am especially sensitive to the last kind, as I inadvertently killed one years ago and went to work sobbing over the road kill I left behind.

So anyway, Wesley and I were in the car, happily driving to school, when I noticed two squirrels hanging out in the middle of the street, probably swapping brownie recipes or something. I called out for them to move so I wouldn't hit them. They did finally  move, but they took their own sweet time about it.  I told Wesley about me accidently hitting a squirrel one time and how upset it had made me and that I didn't want it to happen again. I mean, that would make a me a squirrel serial killer.

"Well Mom, they might not have heard you. They have really tiny ears and they aren't very good listeners," Wesley said. "The next time a squirrel won't move, you let me take care of it. You don't speak squirrel at all and I'm pretty good at it. They'll move for me."

Hey, it's worth a shot. The worst thing that could happen is that it won't work my picture might show up on the wall of the squirrel post office.