Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater

I have a new friend with a magnificent tail and a nose for architecture. I named him Peter because, as you can see, he is a serious pumpkin eater. We spy on each other through the tall window beside my front door. Unless my dog is with me, he happily chomps away as he looks at me dismissively.

I first noticed Peter’s munchings the day after Halloween—toothy white patches dotting the exterior of the one pumpkin that I was too lazy to carve. My kind neighbor told me that pumpkin meat is healthy for squirrels, so I decided to leave him to it.

Peter has hung out at my place now for six weeks. His perky presence has been entertaining during a discouraging season of dreary politics and endless holiday obligations. He makes an enormous mess on my deck, but I don’t care.

This guy is voracious. After carving an entrance, he proceeded to create an apartment by eating everything inside. Peter is now the size of a pumpkin himself and can barely fit through the front door. No matter. My chubby pal cleverly added a skylight, making it easier for him to fill the place with acorns.

Perhaps it’s his size that has elevated Peter to the status of Alpha Squirrel in the neighborhood. No other squirrels dare to come near that pumpkin. Peter rules.

But hubris is dangerous, as well as obsessive. I doubt Peter considers that, with every architectural mouthful, he is eating his way to certain collapse. The pumpkin is already turning black.

More and more, Peter has begun to remind me of the overstuffed among us who are so busy filling their pouches that they can’t see beyond their bellies or their bank accounts to the inevitable collapse that will follow.

They never learn.

Photo by Annie Griffiths