Lawrence Fischman

We have a black squirrel. There is a black squirrel living in the Shagbark tree at the property line. Apparently black squirrels are pretty scarce. One percent of the squirrel population, or one in every 10,000. This article has a fairly complex explanation which also explains Lawrence Fischman. Lawrence Fischman is a terrible flirt. I've never seen a squirrel behave like this and oddly enough, I have seen two other black squirrels in my life. So far. 

I decided to name him because he was pretty damn present. I could be sitting at the round table with the red umbrella, which is in the back corner of the back yard, and just like the super big bunnies, Lawrence Fischman likes to sun himself in the middle of the damn yard. He's supposed to be gathering acorns right about now but he's a bit lazy. Or a bit cocky or he collects when we're not around to give him the attention he so richly deserves.

Why have we anthropomorphized a squirrel, of all things? Because he's making moves on my daughter. Thinks she'd be damn happy with all the Sister Wives (Sister Wives being anything Lawrence Fischman can get jiggy with when jiggy time rolls around). I called him Genevieve when I first noticed him sort of lounging on the grass. Getting a little sun. I've never seen anything like it. I greeted him by name. He glared at me. About two seconds later I was being harshly chastised by by a chittering rodent that was suddenly about twelve feet closer. Up on his hind legs, he was having a full out squirrel fit. 

"I'm not a breeder, you ridiculous wench!"

"Oh, really. I'm not seeing evidence to support otherwise."

"My name, Lady, is Lawrence Fischman. That's Fischman with a C. Wanna see my Squirrel Scrotum?"

"Uhhh, you know what? I think I'll pass on that."

"Just as well, mating season is DEFINITELY over and the guys are making a rapid winter ascent at the moment."

"OK. I'll buy it. Lawrence Fischman with a C it is."

"So listen, as long as we're chatting... that chick with the long blond hair, is she yours?"

"Um. Dude. We do NOT own people. That's been established."

"Um. Lady. Contrary to your mucked up, poorly written laws, there is ample evidence to support absolute ownership."

"OK. Fine. But I don't own her. She is my daughter and while I might feel a protective pang now and then, she's a grown ass woman and I sure as shit wouldn't mess with her. She's getting ready to eat the patriarchy for lunch."

"OUCH! I don't think that's entirely necessary."

"I don't suppose you would."

"OK. So I'd like to propose Squirrel Marriage. Are you suggesting I make that proposal to her sans your consent?"

"Lawrence Fischman, have at it and also good luck with all that."

He drew the line at actually humping her leg but I could see clear intent before he reeled himself in. SHE has no intention of being a Sister Wife. SHE isn't even remotely amused at the prospect. SHE is considering Squirrelicide but to date hasn't had the motivation to locate and purchase a pellet gun. She's also heard the stories about me shooting the tails off most of the squirrels on the farm in Oxford. They were taking one bite out of the peaches they plucked from my tree and then tossing them into the pool.

Listen, the pellet gun, circa 1986, pulled to the left about three inches. I over-compensated with six inches to the right and the bloody bastards lost their tails. I gave up and cut the tree down. I feel her pain. I also notice she's starting to like him.

God no. Please, just no.

The shot above, of Lawrence Fischman leaping for the safety of his Shagbark tree, was preceded by a run in with a momentarily over-protective mother. I have absolutely no shame. However. She's a grown ass woman running to the tune of a kick ass anthem.

The 21st Century Anthem of the American Woman: