Cliff Bars in Washington Square Park

My favorite story squirrel is the one from New York.  I was there as a graduation gift, from Tante Sheri, my somewhat more southern, significantly blonder maternal aunt from Texas.  Five days of roaming around, my first time out of the South.  I was sixteen years of excited all wrapped up into a single moment.

Washington Square Park, at the tail end of the trip, there was a piano and singing and swing dancing.  I looked on.  Reluctantly joining in, when asked to dance (and encouraged by my aunt).

I did this!

This was the New York I'd always imagined.  Full of life.  Fresh.  Smelling of grass and sun, instead of the hotdogs over on Fifth.  There were dogs and a "gourmet milk bone stand" for their benefit. 

Puppy noms

But then there was the squirrel.  A whopping 5 ounces of extroverted rodent.  Used to the normal, frigid rodents of Florida and South Carolina, I was surprised when the little guy approached me.  Practically sticking out his hand for an introduction.  As I had some squirrel appropriate food, a carrot cake Cliff Bar, I ripped off a piece, and presented my hand for hellos.

He put his paws on mine.  He was touching me.  Things seemed to be going well.  He was appreciative of the protein bar, taking it into his little hands and nibbling.

The moment of truth.

He promptly spit out the horrors and left me, affronted at my offering such food.

I later saw him sitting on a bench next to an old man, savoring French fries one by one, until his paws were covered in grease, and his belly resembled the beer gut of the man feeding him.