text: One warm September afternoon, I gathered the courage to introduce myself. I scurried down the tall Oak, out of the woods, into your big backyard. I stood on my hind legs in the middle of the lawn and looked up at you. You stood alone on the deck, admiring the late summer scenery and said, “Hi, sweetheart! I’m Julie, the new tenant.” I thought you were pretty but wondered why your belly was so round. If you were forty, I’d wonder if you were having a boy or a girl. But at fifty, I wondered if you were having too much chocolate cheesecake. After dusk, I’d snoop through the trash to find out. A few days later, you began tossing peanuts throughout the perimeter of your backyard. I appreciated that they were unsalted and realized that you were thoughtful and kind. You didn’t refer to me as a pesky rodent, like the other neighbors did. I began to realize that you were special. And so, our courtship began. All was well until recently, when you carried a big, brown FAO Schwartz teddy bear into the house. Why cuddle a stinky bear that’s probably stuffed with dirty brown wet leaves and sports a tawdry gold bowtie, when you’ve got a handsome gymnast who flies through the Oaks, runs up to 20 miles per hour and performs incredible acrobatic stunts? Plus, my dapper gray and white suit is sporty and fashionable year-round. That's why my species has millions of followers on YouTube, which I see you watching all the time. I doubt you know that I peer through all the windows in your house, sometimes from far up in the Oaks and sometimes much closer. That’s how I know all about the tenants. The last tenant went missing, and you occupy her room. Have you noticed the wooden brown bat standing in the corner next to your bedroom door? Ever wonder what she used it for? I can tell you one thing. Although a sprightly seventy-two, she certainly wasn’t a baseball player. But I’m not saying she’s buried in your backyard or the attic (because I’ve been digging around both places). I’m just saying that I overheard the retired busy body with the binoculars across the street tell another neighbor that the last tenant in the house you occupy is missing. The missing tenant was a retired lady who allegedly didn’t get along well with the sixty-something guy living in your basement. I can understand why. The guy in your basement does more laundry than a murder suspect, and I can smell bleach way out into the woods. You never venture downstairs to do laundry or to chit chat with him. Who could blame you? What do you and Fred have in common? He works in a pharmacy, and you've taken aspirin. And the Peruvian guy who occupies the room next to yours on the main floor? He’s loud and rude, yelling into his cell phone all the time. I overhear too many of his conversations. Sure, he’s evading taxes in two countries. But he won’t harm you. At least not physically. He may drive you crazy though. Don’t get me started on your next-door neighbors. They have more overnight guests than a brothel. What’s up with the massive trampoline that occupies their back yard? Are they planning to host a travelling circus? Why do all the neighbors park their cars on their front lawns, when they all have perfectly good driveways? This is not the wild west. You don't need to tether your car to your porch like a horse. Who knows what's up with these peeps. Perhaps they’re waiting for spaceships to land in their driveways and whisk them away to a suburban utopia. Your 2009 Corolla is your baby. You clean and shine it regularly and even gifted it with new plastic wheel covers. I confess that I am a bit jealous. The retired lady across the street drives a 2022 Corolla, but you don’t seem to notice her. She notices you though. In fact, she often watches you when you venture outside. At least she can’t see you through the closed blinds in your bedroom in front of the house, which faces her kitchen. And you can't see her. There’s not much to watch. It's not like she's Julia Child and Bobby Flay's love child, crafting a divine dish that's going to make you salivate and fly to the moon. She can barely make toast. And she's not missing anything either. It’s not like you’re spending late nights painting the next Mona Lisa or composing a symphony. I wish you’d stop watching so many horror movies. One night, you're going to scare yourself to death. Sure, there is a phrogger living in your attic. It’s December and it’s getting cold. My drey nest full of wet leaves is no longer habitable. Today I seized an opportunity to train you. While you were warming up your Corolla this morning, I scurried up the lonely, barren Oak on your front lawn and waved my thick gray tail at you. You spotted me right away, waved back, and did exactly what I’d hoped. You retrieved a big bag of unsalted peanuts from your trunk and deposited half of it under the Oak. Good girl. Because although I can find food buried beneath a foot of snow, I’d prefer not to freeze my ass off during the cold winter months if I don't have to. The nosy neighbor across the street was watching you with her binoculars. At least now she knows that you do not keep the last tenant in your trunk. Perhaps she keeps the last tenant in her trunk? The Christmas holidays are upon us. I can tell by the carnival of lights and obnoxious Santa Claus displays festooned throughout the neighborhood. Someone stuck a plastic Santa on their roof with a bunch of plastic reindeer. It’s a safety hazard for squirrels, and probably a scene from one of your favorite horror movies. The macabre display of superficial holiday cheer is blocking the chimney and access to the attic. Call 911. Our relationship is back on track. We’re living together. Although not a traditional pair, we understand and support each other better than most couples. I’m looking forward to celebrating our first Christmas together. I trust that you’ll bring me festive boxes filled with walnuts, pecans, macadamias and almonds. You like nuts, I like nuts and our neighbors are all, without a doubt, assorted nuts. Authors note: January 21 st is National Squirrel Appreciation Day in the United States.