Stubby’s chance

I am delighted to report that my mother has come around. 

I have been lobbying my mother for months to take pity on a little red squirrel who had acquired a great fondness for her, demonstrating his devotion by digging up all her flowerpots and gazing at her for minutes at a time through the window. My mother spent the summer shooing him off the deck and telling him to “scram” when she saw him through the window. 

“He loves you, Mom.”

“I don’t love him!”

The little squirrel persisted. He would stare through the window, standing on his hind legs with his little fingers knit together, as if he was about to make a speech. I suspected I knew what his speech would be about. He wanted to be my mom’s pet. 

“He’s not my pet!” my mother insisted.

A couple of weeks ago, I sent her a video of a squirrel that had been allowed to live in someone’s house.

“Never inside!” she texted back.

The fact that she said “never inside” instead of simply “never!” indicated to me that she was softening on the subject. I suspected I knew the reason. Sometime early this fall, the poor squirrel lost half his tail. 

“He was too preoccupied looking in the window at you!” I told her. 

“I don’t know how he lost it,” my mother said. “Maybe a fox.”

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