On our trip to Joseph, Oregon, we stayed in a lovely cabin which sat by a babbling brook. Very scenic. On our first afternoon there, we sat outside on the deck, drinking wine and eating hors d'oeuvres. Then we heard a loud BANG. Then another. The third bang made it clear we were not wanted on that deck.
It seems that a squirrel was sitting high above us in a tall Douglas Fir tree. He was taking great pleasure in throwing down green cones, which hit the tin roof and ricocheted onto the deck. That third cone hit the roof and propelled itself into the mozzarella, basil and tomato salad. We ran for cover and didn't sit on the deck again.
But that didn't stop him. If we were in the back yard, close to the house, he fired the arsenal at us there. And each morning at 6 a.m., his work began, smashing those little grenades at the metal roof. Let's just say we didn't need an alarm clock.
So each morning, I lay in bed, listening to the bombardment outside (when I really wanted to be sleeping) and thought about the squirrel and his future. I illustrated it in my journal.
