Page 57 of Enemies in Paradise

I glance at the shelf next to the door and am met with two pairs of shiny black eyes and two bushy tails. The baby squirrels. And the crying is coming from them. Every time they open their mouths, the sound comes out.

They don’t look hurt, even though they sound like it. I’m not sure if I should pick them up to examine them, or leave them alone until Bear comes back, or what? The only thing I know about baby squirrels is what I’m learning right now, watching them scramble over each other to get a closer look at me.

I take a step back, just in case they’re preparing to attack, but I allow myself another couple of seconds to watch them tumble around and wrestle with each other. Bear’s not wrong. They are very cute.

I’m about to shut the door when Willy Wonkat lets out a meow bark right behind me.

That’s when one squirrel jumps, landing on my head. I scream and let go of the door, which swings wide open. I don’t know where the other squirrel goes, but the one on my head digs in his claws, holding tight to my scalp.

Meanwhile, instead of chasing the squirrelnoton my head, Willy Wonkat goes after the one that is. He attaches himself to my sweats and tries to climb me as if I’m a redwood.

Once Willy makes it as far as my butt—despite my efforts to unhook him from my clothes and skin—the squirrel lets go. He jumps to my shoulder, then scurries down my front.

Once the baby hits the floor, Willy pushes off my back and chases it. The squirrel climbs an old oil drum, then launches himself onto the same high shelf. Willy tries to do the same, but he’s too fat to make it onto the oil drum.

The second squirrel darts past me into the studio, and before I can stop him, Willy follows.

Before I can join the chase, the first squirrel scurries through the studio door after the other one, with Willy close behind. I run after them, closing the door behind me. Who knows how many squirrels are in the shop? Maybe all the squirrels that cornered me outside are using the shop as some kind of baby squirrel daycare.

Best to contain the two I know of inside my apartment. That’s standard police procedure. Contain. Restrain.

Except there’s no containing the chaos the squirrels and Willy create. The squirrels somehow climb to the top of the fridge, then scurry across the space between the ceiling and cabinets, while Willy does his best to follow. He only makes it as high as the kitchen counter where my dishes are drying.

The plate he lands on flies to the floor, where it shatters. A glass follows, then my plastic cup, which lands on the dish shards, sending them flying before the cup rolls under the sink.

“Willy! Stop!” I yell.

I’d yell at the squirrels too, but I don’t know their names. Wouldn’t matter, anyway. They wouldn’t listen any better than Willy does.

The squirrels change direction, run back over the fridge, and jump to the floor. Willy does the same, knocking the rest of my dishes off the counter as he runs over them. He follows the squirrels to the kitchen table where, one page after the other in quick succession, they kick the papers there to the floor. Then they all head for the daybed.

They practically run over my feet because I’m frozen in the middle of the room. Everything is happening too fast to know which way to move first.

One squirrel follows the other, with Willy hot on their heels, as they run on, over, under, around—every preposition—my bed.Then they jump on the curtains and scamper to the top. Both squirrels plant themselves on the curtain rod and squeal at Willy who paces below, like a lion who’s treed his prey.

I don’t know how much patience lions have. Probably more than Willy, because before I can reach him, he decides to climb the curtain too. He springs, hooks the sheer fabric with his claws, and lifts one paw to climb higher.

Inches from grabbing Willy, I freeze again as the bracket holding the weight of the curtain rod, two squirrels, and a fat cat—hanging mid-air by one foot—gives. A mini-snowstorm of drywall sprinkles to the floor as the screws come loose and the rod drops a couple of inches.

“No, no, no, no, no…” I grab Willy at the same time his hanging paw makes contact with the curtain. When I pull him away, he’s hooked in tight, leaving eight long tears before I can unhook him. The rod drops another couple of inches, scaring Willy, who scratches his way out of my arms and attacks the curtain.

With Willy busy, the squirrels escape into the bathroom. Somehow, I have the presence of mind to shut the door.

Containment accomplished.

Then the curtain screws give. The bracket comes out of the wall. The rod crashes to the ground, taking out a lamp on its way.

Willy frees himself from the wreckage and runs to the bathroom door where he bark-meows and tries to claw his way inside. On the other side of the door, I hear my makeup bag crash to the ground. Then the toilet flushes.

I pray to the makeup and cute baby animal gods that neither my mascara nor Bear’s squirrel babies were in the toilet. I almost look to make sure when I hear squealing so loud it has to be both babies.

The mascara can be replaced, but I’d have a hard time explaining to Bear a death-by-flushing of one of his squirrels. So, knowing they’re both still alive, I don’t risk opening the door.Plus, there’s less to destroy in the bathroom than there is in the rest of the studio.

Except, as I survey the destruction the one-minute Willy Wonkat-squirrel tornado wreaked, there isn’t much more they can destroy.

Half of my dishes lie broken on the floor. My one window is now curtainless, my one lamp is also in pieces. At some point, the squirrels must have run across the TV, because it’s hanging crooked on the wall.

I cross the room to straighten it because that’s one thing I can fix. But as soon as I touch it, the whole thing crashes to the floor.

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