Page 77 of Christmas in Paradise

Half a dozen pairs of squirrel eyeballs dart from me to the tasty snack between their adorable little…

A horrifying realization hits me at the same time Pete’s words do.

“That’s our mistletoe!” He waddle-runs toward the vandals, waving his arms. “Shoo! Shoo! You get out of here!”

The squirrels don’t move, other than to reach their paws into what’s left of the boxes they’re standing on, around, and in, and take out more mistletoe. They stop only long enough to regard Pete with polite disinterest before they go back to their super-speed nibbling.

“I should have known better than to leave these boxes out here.” Out of breath and with hands on his hips, Pete shakes his head. “These are Lynette’s squirrels. That’s why they’re not running. She’s tamed the darn things. But only enough to not be afraid of people, not enough to like us.”

As if to confirm what Pete’s said, the squirrel closest to me tosses aside her bare branch and slips her paw into the opening of the box she’s standing on without breaking eye contact with me. She smiles triumphantly—I swear that’s what she does—as she pulls a beautiful, fresh sprig of mistletoe from the box and holds it in front of her mouth. Then her little jaw moves at lightning speed to gobble upmywedding and Yulefestdécor.

That’s when I do the only thing I can.

I pull out my phone and turn to Google.

“Mistletoe is poisonous,” Pete says with real concern. “They’re going to make themselves sick… or worse.”

“Uh, not for squirrels it isn’t. They love the stuff.” This is the only fact Google gives me about squirrels and mistletoe. Nothing about how to get them away from it.

“Is that right? Well, let’s worry about saving the mistletoe instead of the squirrels then.” Pete takes off after the squirrels again, this time more aggressively. Which for Pete means yelling “get!” instead ofshoo.

And even though they’re still stinking adorable, I join Pete in chasing them away.

Or attempt to.

I knew squirrels were fast, but I didn’t know how determined they are. And smart. At least these ones are. They work in teams—maybe Lynette has trained them to do that, too—and they use their cuteness to their advantage.

The minute I chase one away, another one comes running back for more mistletoe. That one eats as fast as it can while its co-conspirators distract us. We turn our attention to the next, and it stops, blinks its big eyes and waves its bushy tail, then darts away.

One of us chases it. But as soon as we’re busy chasing, a couple more squirrels take their places at the buffet table, until all of us are caught in a vicious cycle. Although only one species seems to be bothered by it.

Aside from my growing panic that imitation mistletoe may be in my near future, being outsmarted by a pack of squirrel thugs is not great for my ego.

Then Pete comes to a sudden stop in front of me. “This isn’t working.” He leans over, breathing loudly. “We’ve got to slow our roll.”

“Slow our roll,” I repeat, nodding like this is a clear strategy.

“I’ll take the rear. You stay here. At my signal, we walk slowly toward them. Pick up as much mistletoe as possible. We’ve got to save what we can, while we can.” He huffs through his instructions, while I worry that if he collapses, I don’t know how I’ll drag him safely away from the battlefield where the squirrels clearly have the advantage.

Pete makes his way in a wide circle to the neat stacks of trees. I shake out my hands and take deep breaths while I wait for his signal. I’ve never been on the counter-offensive when it comes to squirrels. I’m not sure what to expect. Ten minutes ago, I would have assumed they’d scurry away, stopping to wave goodbye before disappearing into the pine trees that surround Thomsen’s.

But I was younger then. Naïve. I believed in the Disney squirrels fromEnchanted—or was that a chipmunk?—andIce Age.Squirrels who only ate nuts and weren’t very smart.

Lies. All lies.

At Pete’s signal I inch forward, keeping my eyes on the squirrel closest to me. The ringleader. The kingpin. The squirrel mastermind.

He—only a male could cause this much trouble—watches me too. I reach the first bunch of mistletoe and bend down to pick it up. He narrows his big eyes. (As much as a squirrel can narrow those big orbs).

I stand up slowly, clutching the mistletoe close to my chest. Pete sends me an encouraging nod, and I take a few more slow steps to an unguarded box that’s relatively intact.

The squirrel—I name him Grinchy, because he’s determined to ruin Christmas—cocks his head to the side, which should be cute, but is, in fact, terrifying. I pick up the box as quickly and carefully as possible. Grinchy darts toward me. I let out a squeak, and he stops, inches from my feet.

Inches.

“Pete…” My voice wobbles as I call softly for him.

“They think wewantto feed them.” Pete, who’s in a stare down with a skinny-tailed squirrel who’s definitely seen action, doesn’t look my way.

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