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New nose print on sliding glass door. Boxnoggin landed and took off, almost knocking me over, seeking escape in a different direction. Miss B, sitting daintily with her paws arranged, rolled her eyes.

Squirrel on the deck took off too.

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He overlooked one important thing.

The door was fully, firmly, and absolutely closed.

I screamed “WHAT THE HELL?”

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Boxnoggin landed and lunged for the door, maybe thinking the squirrels had enfolded our flanks and a breakout was required.

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I said “what are we looking at” and Boxnoggin jumped about a foot. Miss B looked pityingly at him and then sideways at me, like “what the fuck do you think we’re looking at, a fucking squirrel, Mother.”

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I crept out in search of the dogs and found them with their noses plastered to the sliding glass door.

The squirrel on the roof was the distraction. The one on the deck was the true danger.

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Never mind. Squirrel still going. Dogs as silent as toddlers getting into mischief.

Cover me. I’m going in.

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Dare I open the office door? The sudden quiet has me kind of creepified.

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Squirrel still doing laps. Dogs attempted to break my door down. Just yelled “FOR FUCK’S SAKE WILL YOU CHEESE IT” through office door because apparently I am a cartoon character.

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Dog One: SOMETHING ON THE ROOF! BARK!

Dog Two: SOMETHING ON THE ROOF! BITE DOG ONE!

Me: GET THE FUCK OFF THE COUCH, YOU HEATHENS!

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Now both dogs are tearing around the house trying to echolocate the squirrel’s exact position. Miss B is taking breaks to pummel Boxnoggin, since he committed the indiscretion of attempting dominance-humping.

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Boxnoggin just tore into my office, threw himself upon Miss B in an excess of enthusiasm, and got, in the pungent phrase of my grandfather’s tribe, “his ass beat.”

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My heart is hammering. The squirrel atop the house is doing laps. Boxnoggin erupted when the bird hit the window and is now Singing the Song of His People

…send earplugs.

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…and a bird just hit the front window.

JESUS, WILDLIFE, PACE YOURSELVES. THIS IS RIDICULOUS

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Miss B is head-cocked and listening intently, waiting until she can predict the thing’s movements to lose her shit.

Boxnoggin, however, employs different tactics.

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Either it’s crazed by the smoke or the air quality is getting better out there. It’s a toss-up.

I never thought I’d want to celebrate one of the little fuzzy fuckers gallivanting on my roof, but here we are.

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Ragged Feathers

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