I once mercilessly teased my BFF, Gwen, for hitting a squirrel with her car.  She was driving, while my husband and I were in the back seat.  Although she said she swerved to avoid the squirrel, it felt to us like she was aiming right at him.

In the days after that squirrel’s tragic demise we were pretty mean to Gwen, who felt terrible.  We told her we drove by the scene of the crime and heard little baby squirrels calling “Daddy?  Daddy?”  We said she’d be haunted by the martyred squirrel, and left her voicemails with a combination of what we thought sounded like squirrel chatter and a haunted howl.

Flash forward ten years and the karmic wheel has turned:  the squirrels are now coming for me.

I started a month ago when we went to our lake house.  I went to harvest my crop of junk mail from the mailbox (we don’t check it very often since we don’t give out that address), and discovered that a flying squirrel had made her nest behind our stack of grocery store flyers and credit card offers.

We couldn’t figure out why the squirrel refused to leave the area until we realized that she had at least one baby in the nest with her.  We left her alone, and she had cleaned out her nest by the time we returned for our next visit.

Last night’s incident was more insidious and actually pretty scary.  It appears that the now homeless Lake Anna flying squirrel put out a squirrel hit on me.

It was a nice evening, so I made a picnic and met SJ and the kids at the Ashburn Dinosaur Park after daycare.

The kids had fun playing for a while as I set out the food.  Everyone came to the table and the kids started eating as I cut up a pear.

A squirrel came up to our table.  At first he just looked interested in what we were doing, but then he came up to the table, as if I had set him a plate.

I told him to shoo.  He just looked at me.

I yelled at him, waved my hand, and stomped my foot.  He kept looking at me.

He climbed onto the table two feet away, right behind where I was standing, and began to rifle through our cooler.  I yelled at him and tried to shoo him with my paring knife in my hand.  I threw a bag of food at him, but he didn’t flinch. 

He looked at me levelly, as if to say “look, lady, there’s only one way that this is going to end, and it involves me eating all of that food.  Now move, so no one gets hurt.”

I started to go at him again, when SJ stepped up and said he’d handle it.  The squirrel moved away a few steps, then started to come at 18-month-old Bennett.

I swear to God, I think the squirrel picked Bennett out like a hungry lion picks out the smallest zebra in the herd.

I was seriously ready to hurt that squirrel.  When he came at my baby, I felt all of my protective instincts and adreneline kick in. I morphed into Mommy Hulk, my skin turning green and my muscles busting through my sensible LL Bean button-down shirt.

SJ and I were yelling at this point (in the middle of an otherwise park where everyone now thought that we were insane.)  I wanted to throw rocks at the squirrel.  SJ hollered that wounding a wild and possibly rabid animal is a good way to get bitten. 

I grabbed the baby, called the big kids to me, and SJ grabbed the food.  We tried to sell the kids on a super fun “Van Picnic,” but they didn’t buy it and we went home.

The squirrel had won the battle, though I did get some measure of satisfaction by calling Animal Control.  Hopefully “The Man” can come in and take care of “The Squirrel.”

Once we got home and calmed down, I thought the squirrel nightmare was over.

I washed my hands at the kitchen sink when I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was a plastic kangaroo (I guess we don’t have any plastic squirrels), held by my husband.

“Sorry I wrecked your piiiiiicniiiiiic,” he wheedled in his best, high-pitched squirrel imitation. 

Since last night he’s been hiding the kangaroo/squirrel in various places (the refrigerator, etc.) so to remind me of the killer attack squirrel that has my number.

A comic genius, my husband. 

I’ll have to call Gwen.  She’ll understand.