The Zombie-Virus Squirrel
I was enjoying a quiet evening on the porch at the Spot, dedicated to thoughts of writing and a better life, when my peace was intruded upon by a strange visitor. Perpendicular to the ground, clinging to the outside of the screen like a frantic, furred Spider-Man, was a frenzied beast. Between twelve and fifteen inches long, its coat was a ragged mix of gray with rust-red highlights, two razor-sharp incisors gleamed with an unnatural menace in the moonlight, its two bulbous eyes stared manically in at me; an eastern gray squirrel had disturbed my meditations.
But it was no ordinary squirrel. Something was off about this creature's vibe. It was "running" back and forth on the screen in front of me, almost the way a joyful dog will run back and forth on the ground in front of you when it wants to play. Joy, however, was absent from the foot-long rodent's frenetic movements. It was making a delirious chorus of saw-blade screeches, thin, wire-like shrieks, and panicked clicking chirps. The tormented creature was "running" with an agitated, tacky scratch on the vertical screen, a movement more like a frightened gecko than a rodent. The small animal seemed like it was exposing its long front teeth in some deliberately communicative way. "Great. This freaking thing has been bitten by an escaped research monkey and now it has the zombie-virus and this is how it ends," I thought as I remembered a news story about an escaped research monkey I had read earlier in the day. I let out a muffled chuckle at the absurd idea. It may have not been infected with the zombie-virus, but something was greatly disturbing this squirrel—its behavior seemed almost familiar to me.
I wondered, "What's wrong with this poor thing? Is it mentally ill?" I was briefly considering the possibility that it was rabid. "I think squirrels can get rabies…" I intently studied its small furry face as it continued to scream its little head off and run back and forth on the screen of the porch. "Did it look like it was foaming at the mouth?" I leaned forward slightly, peering closer at the frantic animal. "No." It was the exposed teeth, and the look of terror in its wide eyes. "This squirrel," I realized, "isn't infected. It's hunted."
I thought back to events that led me to the Spot and a shiver ran down my spine, the echo of the primal fear of being hunted. At that moment I thought, "Wait, what the hell would be hunting a squirrel in this urban area?" That was when I saw the ghastly nightwalking demon from hell. Sitting as still as marble on its hind legs, gazing coldly up at the squirrel with its unblinking murderous yellow eyes, was a black and gray spotted domestic feline of some sort. I had observed the cat before, on a number of occasions, passing through the grounds at the Spot. It always seemed pretty laid back and curious, a bit skittish perhaps, but a nice animal. Now I was seeing it in a different light. It seemed more like a wildcat now. A silent, unblinking certainty radiated from it that seemed to communicate: "I bet I could kill you."
Fortunately, the scared squirrel finally ran around the corner on the screen porch, hopped off, quickly ran to one of the big trees that surround the Spot, and vanished up the trunk into the canopy. I looked back at the cat who was still sitting there, only now it was staring at me. I made a little wispy sound and said, "Hellooooo kittie." In the dismissive and aloof way only a cat can manage, it swiftly vanished into the night.
The scene had stirred memories—the primal chill of being hunted, of feeling desperate and alone. That old saying, "appearances can be deceiving", echoed in my mind. I wondered how people had perceived me over the last seven years. Perhaps like a crazed zombie-virus infected squirrel. I laughed out loud at the preposterousness of life.