Squirrelly.

Sitting at a sun-bleached table in an urban garden, notebooks and laptops spread between us, Caroline and I commiserate over recent chaos. Cars breaking down, reliable people flaking, confirmed gigs falling through . . . all for no discernible reason, except our own crazy making. A scratching sound from somewhere below prompts us both to pause and look. We discover a disheveled squirrel (which would make an excellent band name, btw) sitting on its muddy hind legs,  eyeing us from its dirt-crusted face. “That’s the dirtiest squirrel I’ve ever seen,” Caroline marvels, “squirrels are usually so neat.” I chuckle in agreement. The squirrel scampers away, flicking its matted tail at us, expressing his own commentary on our rudeness.

More. . .