I finally came home from some nerve-wracking grocery shopping and had carefully removed my mask and gloves and was about to strip away my “compromised” clothing and hop in the shower when Stephen, standing behind the glass door separating the foyer from the living room, informed me that he had just watched the black squirrel (the one that lives in our yard and periodically tries to kill me) get into a fight with a grey squirrel of unknown origin.
“Who won?” I asked, instantly curious. “Our squirrel or the other squirrel?”
“Our squirrel,” said Stephen.
“Good,” I replied.
Because even though I dislike our squirrel (and also, it’s periodically, I’m more than sure, tried to kill me), it’s still, at the end of the day, our squirrel, and doesn’t it therefore seem that some solidarity, some sense of nobleized loyalty is order?
It’s not personal at all. Trust me.