The Squirrel in the Attic: The Furry Home Invasion

So Mama Jean starts complainin’ about noises in the attic.

She says, “Earl, there’s somethin’ livin’ up there, and if it’s you hidin’ snacks again, I’m changin’ the

locks.” Now, I tell her it’s probably just a squirrel.

She says, “Then go evict it before it eats my insulation.” So I grab my flashlight, broom, and

my old football helmet—you know, the one that still smells like victory and chili dogs—and crawl up there

like I’m goin’ on a mission.

Soon as I poke my head in, I see him: a squirrel sittin’ on a beam like he

owns the place.

He’s chewin’ on wires, starin’ me down with beady little eyes.

I whisper, “Alright, pal, this house ain’t big enough for both of us.” He tilts his head like

he agrees—and then charges.

That furball hits me square in the chest, bounces off my face, and disappears into a box of

Christmas stuff.

I flail around, knock over a fan, and tumble down the ladder yellin’, “HE’S COMIN’ FOR BLOOD!” Mama

Jean just stands there with her arms crossed, sayin’, “You’re thirty-eight years old, Earl, and losin’ a fight

to a squirrel.” Then the squirrel shoots outta the attic, runs across the hallway, and lands right in

Grandma’s lap.

Grandma screams, throws her crossword book, and the squirrel bolts straight out the window like he paid rent

through the end of the month.

Now there’s a hole in the drywall, a broken lamp, and one very smug squirrel sittin’ on the

fence outside starin’ at me like he won a medal.

Mama Jean says, “Next time, call pest control.” I said, “Next time, I’m movin’.”