Little Guy had no interest in the dog treat I set tentatively on the ground. He was lukewarm on baby carrots, apple slices, Rye Crisp and Cheerios. Each time I went for something knew, the brownish, grayish figure fullowed me up the back step and stood, with more impatience than anticipation, just inside the kitchen door. It was only when I discovered a packet of walnuts that I was rewarded with an enthusiastic chirp. He took the morsel happily, tucked it somewhere, and stretched his fingery paws out for more.

"Those things have rabies, you know," I was told again and again by friends and relative. And I’m sure there is something tragically cruel about feeding a wild animal. But squirrels, I’m thinking, are less wild than many. Little Guy, for example, arrives precisely at 4:30 each afternoon. He is clearly on his way from somewhere to somewhere else – across my office roof, along the trellis and down the wooden fence. He has, it seems, about 15 minutes to spare before he has to catch a telephone wire to a tree branch.

Like I said, this character knows what he wants. He dines politely. He knows what he can carry, or at least I thought he did until yesterday when I heard an odd scraping sound in the back yard after Little Guy had moved on down the line. Sure enough, the petite visitor had circled around for more and dragged the entire Zip-lock bag of shelled walnuts across the yard and up the fence, but had dropped it by my door. He chattered angrily as I picked up the bag, handed him one more, and pocketed the rest.

"See you tomorrow," I said, feeling a small piece of my sanity falling away. A man alone talking to a squirrel is a sad sight to see. But no one saw, and fall is coming, and I too have great bags of work to finish before the snow flies. -- JDR