Unnamed squirrel feels touched while observing student taking grad photos
This squirrel overheard the sound of your giggles as you posed in your white dress and wedges — or was it a pair of slacks and a button-down? — for your graduation photos. He listened as you carried on about how excited you were. He stopped burying his nut and stood up in the grass, his little nose quivering, his small hands drawn together in front of his body. He heard you joke about the countdown of days until commencement, and his little heart leapt into his throat. He couldn’t help feeling nostalgic about you.
He remembers when you two shared a moment after he approached you curiously and you idiotically threw him a piece of pastrami (squirrels don’t eat pastrami, dammit). He knew you were only trying to be nice, in your own “special” way. And by “special,” he means stupid. He remembers the time he approached you rather aggressively in an empty breezeway. He’s sorry about that, but he had just fruitlessly chased a lady squirrel for an hour around a tree, and he found your goofy expression to be mocking. He remembers the time you saw some moron lady trying to take his picture. For a second, you both locked eyes as if to say, “Can you believe her?” He remembers that you once shared a bench with him on the Quad, in front of Wellman and on the bridge near the library. He remembers that you once caught him burying an acorn and, although you watched him finish the job, you’d never, ever tell anyone where he buried it. You would guard his secret forever. And he remembers what you once said aloud to him: “You know, the Davis mascot should really be a squirrel.” Even though he feels bad for you because you looked really dumb in front of other humans for that, he thought the sentiment was sweet.
He’s overwhelmed with feeling for you — the one person who understood the little guy, and he cries a single, jagged tear down his tiny, furry face. He hates to see you leave, but he’s glad that you’ll be on to bigger and better things. And he’s really proud that he could help you by teaching you that squirrels don’t eat deli meat, you dummy. When he’s done reminiscing, he finishes burying his acorn and scampers away. While taking pictures, you never paused to look around and notice him watching you, but you should’ve known. He was there.
Written by: Jess Driver — jmdriver@ucdavis.edu
(This article is humor and/or satire, and its content is purely fictional. The story and the names of “sources” are fictionalized.)
