Squirrel?

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Subterranean invasions by bushy-tailed beasties have been curiously absent these days. Longtime readers might recall a series of unfortunate events in this. And then there was the further embarrassment of this. I could be asking for trouble by daring to suggest a truce — they’re probably setting up lawn chairs in the crawlspace even as I chatter on.

The previous winter was a heat wave — no need to chew through concrete for a cozy berth in the mothership. This year began pretty mild, nothing to invade a home about. The fierce gales of March may be unusual, but beams of lengthening daylight must be enough to satisfy them in their leafy dens.

Meanwhile, I shiver in my dry winter skin, gazing out this bundled house at an invisible hand rippling the fine tail of one on the post, wishing I had that coat.

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