I hate squirrels

There's a song called I Hate Mondays. If you switched out Mondays for squirrels, it would sum up my feelings exactly.

I looked out my window this morning and saw a squirrel on my porch. Cute, I thought. Wildlife. A few minutes later, the squirrel was still there, staring at me. I waved my arms at it in standard anti-wildlife manner. Nothing. Then I remembered I had a cat. So, I lifted Charlie up like a furry, squirming gun -- she just purred. (I have yet to see my cat poof up in anger, which is really the main attraction of owning a cat. The adoption ladies assured me she grew up ferile, but I'm beginning to think Kevin Federline has more street cred.)

After wasting a bit more time, I looked out the window for a third time -- no squirrel. Thinking myself rather silly, I opened the door. The blasted thing was right there, paws up, waiting for me. Luckily, my scream seemed to unnerve it, and it backed away around the corner.

Now, I can leave my apartment by either the back outside staircase, or the front. During spider season, I abandon the back staircase, as it belongs only to me, so I'd be the only one walking into the webs. The squirrel had gone towards the front. I peeked around the corner -- it was a few feet away, and it started coming at me.

That's when I discovered I hate squirrels more than spiders. I ran down the back staircase. When I got to the bottom, I brushed the webs from my face and looked up -- the thing was sitting there looking down at me, like a cliff-top Hezbollah fighter.

Yech.

I much prefer chipmunks, but when's the last time anyone saw a chipmunk?