🪵 Have You Ever Been Cussed Out by a Squirrel

It’s barely 8 a.m., the sky is doing that soft pastel thing where it can’t quite decide if it’s morning or still dreaming, and I’m out on my deck with a cup of coffee that’s hotter than my patience. I’m soaking in the quiet, the kind that feels like a held breath, when suddenly — and I mean suddenly — I am verbally assaulted by a squirrel.

Not just a chirp. Not a polite squirrel “good morning.” No, this gray-furred banshee came at me like I’d just rolled into a drum circle in a Tesla playing Kenny G at full volume.

He sat on the railing, tail flicking like a metronome set to "furious," eyes narrowed, body puffed out like he was ready to throw paws. And he let me have it.

Have you ever been cussed out by a squirrel?

Because that’s what this was. Not some adorable Disney chatter. No. This was full-on rodent rage. Rapid-fire barks, chirps, and squeals that felt deeply personal. Like I’d insulted his mother, his tree, and his entire acorn collection in one breath.

At first, I just blinked at him, thinking maybe he was startled. Maybe I’d sat in his spot. But no. This squirrel had intent. This was targeted. Directed. I had offended his very spirit by simply existing on my own deck, on a day he clearly felt he had dominion over.

And let me tell you — it takes a special kind of confidence to square up with a human at sunrise, unarmed, three apples tall, and mad as hell.

Naturally, I did what any rational adult would do: I apologized. Out loud. To the squirrel.

“I’m sorry, my guy,” I said, coffee in hand, trying to reason with a creature whose entire body language screamed, “You’ve disrupted the sacred contract of morning peace, you chaotic goblin, and I will not stand for it.”

He didn’t care. He ramped up. I’m not fluent in Squirrel, but I felt every syllable of that screeching monologue. This was no vague discontent — this was a declaration of war.

                                                

And then he leapt. Not at me, thank the gods, but to a nearby branch, where he continued his tirade from the trees, like a tiny furry general giving his troops the rallying speech of a lifetime. I half-expected other squirrels to emerge with tiny flags and war paint.

I sat there, coffee cooling, stunned into stillness. Not because I was afraid — but because I was impressed. Deeply impressed.

This squirrel was living his truth.

He had something to say, and he said it. Loudly. Repeatedly. Unapologetically. I couldn’t even be mad. The audacity! The commitment! He didn’t just hold space — he took it. And honestly? Maybe I needed the reminder.

Because haven’t we all had those days? The ones where someone steps into our sacred quiet — physically or emotionally — and we don’t bark? Where we shrink or smooth it over or say, “It’s fine,” when it’s really not?

That squirrel didn’t shrink. He screamed his little truth at the sky. And maybe that’s wild. Maybe it’s ridiculous. Or maybe it’s the most sacred thing I’ll witness all week.

So now I’m watching the trees a little more carefully. Not for danger — but for wisdom.

Because apparently, sometimes enlightenment comes not in silence, but in squirrel fury.

And in case he’s reading this somehow: I see you, angry tree goblin. I honor your rage. And tomorrow I’ll bring peanuts.

But I’m still sitting on my deck.