Animal Encounters of All Kinds

 

 The Squirrel Mafia: They're Not Just Nuts; They're Organized Crime

Now, you might think squirrels are cute, fluffy little creatures, scampering about with their acorns, living their best forest-critter lives. And maybe some of them are. But the squirrels on my routes? They're different. They're bolder. They're organized. I’m pretty sure they run a sophisticated underground network dedicated to mild acts of terrorism against delivery drivers. I’ve seen them give each other complex hand signals. I’ve suspected them of deliberately rolling walnuts under my tires. But nothing, nothing, prepared me for the day they staged a full-blown van hijacking.

Yes, you read that right. I was commandeered and robbed by squirrels.

It was a crisp autumn afternoon, leaves crunching underfoot, the kind of day that almost makes you forget the existential dread of 180 stops. I had just finished a delivery, hopped back into my trusty blue steed, and was about to pull away when I heard it – a tiny, almost imperceptible chirp coming from inside the cab.

Now, I’m not easily spooked. I’ve faced down snarling dogs, navigated rush hour traffic that would make a saint swear, and even delivered packages during what sounded suspiciously like a minor gang war. But an unidentified chirping inside my van? That sent a shiver down my spine usually reserved for realizing I’ve left my lunch at home.

I stopped immediately, every muscle tensing, paralyzed by a primal fear of the unknown. Was it a bird? A tiny, lost alien? The ghost of all the mis-sorted packages come back to haunt me? Slowly, ever so slowly, I turned my head to the right, eyes scanning the passenger seat like it might suddenly sprout fangs.

And then, BOOM!

Out of nowhere, a furry brown blur, all teeth and righteous indignation, launched itself directly at my face. It was a squirrel. A very angry, very determined squirrel, apparently hell-bent on claiming my van (and possibly my eyeballs) as its new winter drey.

I don’t think I’ve ever moved faster in my life. I let out a scream that probably shattered windows three blocks away, a high-pitched, undignified shriek that was pure, unadulterated terror. I bailed out of that van like it was on fire, flailing and squealing, convinced I was under attack by a rabid, airborne rodent.

The commotion, naturally, attracted attention. One of the neighbor customers, a sweet-looking older lady I’d delivered to countless times, came rushing out of her house... wielding a broom like it was a medieval broadsword. Seeing me swatting at my own face and screeching like a banshee, she clearly assumed the worst – that I was being swarmed by invisible, demonic entities (or perhaps just a very aggressive bee). Without a word, she started whacking me with the broom. Hard. Trying, in her own well-intentioned, slightly terrifying way, to "get them off me."

So there I am, in the middle of a suburban street, screaming about a kamikaze squirrel, while a well-meaning vigilante attempts to beat the evil spirits (or the squirrel, she wasn't picky) out of me with household cleaning equipment. It took a good minute of frantic explanations, dodging both imaginary squirrels and actual broom bristles, to clarify the situation.

Eventually, the squirrel, probably satisfied with its successful act of vehicular piracy and the ensuing human chaos, made a leisurely exit from the van, probably to report back to its fuzzy overlords. I was left shaken, slightly bruised by the broom-wielding grandma, and with a newfound respect for the audacity of the Squirrel Mafia. They don't just want your nuts anymore, folks. They want your ride. And they are not afraid to use aggressive negotiations to get it.