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I've decided that the Pennsylvania State University has the craziest breed of squirrels alive. They attack passersby, consume things other than nuts, truly believe they have a claim to a piece of society, and basically torment the unsuspecting undergrads. First small case-in-point: Squirrels here think they own the place. Outside Penn State's lovely Arts complex is a fountain surrounded by benches and trees, the former providing a scenic resting place for the scholarly who are in-between classes, and the latter a home for the squirrels. One day I got out of class a bit early and decided to take advantage of the benches and, being the studious and concerned citizen that I am, read a little of the Daily Collegian. The benches were a popular place that day, and most were taken, but I found one with an empty space, conveniently located next to an attractive young lady. The only problem was the squirrel that was occupying my predestined seat. Yes, squirrels here have no fear of humans, and he was just chillin' next to my lady. So I went over, assuming he would move for me when I attempted to sit down. But did he? Noooo! Mr. Squirrel thought he owned the place, tossing aside millions of years of evolution that has brought Scott Claffee to the top of the food chain and Harry J. Squirrel to his petty, nut-eating existence. I would've sat right on his head if he hadn't hissed at me in a tone more reminiscent of a velociraptor than a rodent. So I left, in search of a safer place to rest my feet and read my paper, defeated once again by an inferior species. Something must be done to assert our dominance, but it wasn't going to be me, at least not on that day. 
Most everybody has seen one of these bushy-tailed nut-eating rodents before, but I assure you that these creatures we have here are not the same thing. These days, any Penn State student who chooses to venture out of his safehouse of a dormitory does so at his or her own risk. Upon reaching the sidewalks, or any open area covered by a canopy of foliage, the pedestrian is suddenly faced with a barrage of nuts greeting the top of his head. Yes, that's right, it's a virtual hailstorm of acorns. I myself have been a victim of this air assault on more than one occasion. "Is this a coincidence?" you ask, thinking perhaps that the innocent little furballs just accidentally drop the remnants of their most recent meal on the domes of the scholars. Well friends, I think not. I propose that these squirrels sit up in their deciduous abodes and aim, yes aim, the acorns at the walkers. They have a grand old time. They probably make a game of it. I'm sure Chuck and Billy wing those babies down all day long, keeping track and laughing at every injured little marching band member to get a lump on her head. Yes friends, they laugh it up good. They have little scorecards up there, perhaps a chalkboard like the proverbial bar room dart game, however I doubt they have a pitcher of lager and a couple of cheap cigars up there in the oak pad, though I wouldn't be surprised -- those nuts (no pun intended). There is no safe path to class in Happy Valley. No one can escape the torment of the killer squirrels. I might start carrying an umbrella. I suggest you do the same.
Now that we've somewhat established the insanity of these fuzzy animals, I want to tell you of one particular little guy who has gone completely loco. This squirrel actually thinks he's some kind of dog. Earlier in the month the East Halls Residence Association (or some other organization, it's not important) held a cookout in our quad. They had, among other delectables, barbecued chicken grilling in the afternoon sun. Well, the event passed, and some lazy coed decided that rather than place his chicken bone in the proper receptacle, he would simply toss his under the nearest tree. Much to the delight of our friend the squirrel, the bone remained there for a few days. Later on, after an intramural softball game, I was walking back to my dorm with my teammates when I saw our furry neighbor munching on the aforementioned chicken bone. First of all, don't squirrels just eat nuts? Second of all, have you ever seen a squirrel with a bone in its mouth? Because if you have, read no more because I am indeed not worthy of telling you this story. Anyway, try to picture this as I saw it. You have a chicken bone; I don't know which part of the chicken, I'm no friggin' farmer or vet or whatever, that is shaped like your typical dog bone, with the little nobby things on either end. Then you have this squirrel, all curled up and chompin' on this bone like he just learned how to play fetch. So we approach the squirrel and he picks his bone up in his mouth (yes, they can use their hands, but he didn't) and the little nobby things on the bone are hanging out of either end of his mouth like the proudest little Fido you've ever seen. We get a little too close to this loony and he proceeds to run away. Maybe to bury his prize in the backyard? I don't know. I just know that this is not the usual behavior of most squirrels I know. After the inevitable laughter subsided, the reality of what we had witnessed began to hit my teammates and me. A squirrel-dog is living in State College. Squirrels are everywhere and in many forms, including ones that fly, but beware the squirrel that wags its tail and pants as you walk by, because not only might you get an acorn on the head, you might also get bitten in the butt. |
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