Paying the acorn forward

Starbucks, the coffee giant often criticized for the twin sins of presenting jet fuel under the guise of java - and then pricing it like jet fuel anyway - can be proud that it struts some Squirrel Spirit.

That's right: Starbucks is channeling its inner rodent. Something positively bushytailed, and unquestionably bright-eyed, has been happening at baristas' drive-through windows around the region - perhaps the country: Motorists are pulling up to take delivery of their orders and discovering that the previous driver has already paid their tab. Inspired to reciprocity, these drivers are, in turn, extending the same courtesy to the car in line behind them.

They are paying it forward by paying it backward.

Starbucks customers are simply discovering the selfless gesture that squirrels have engaged in for millenia: If you bury a small acorn and then walk away, it will still have been a worthwhile effort, because someone is bound to come along, dig it up and enjoy it. (Smartypants that they are, squirrels are also wise to the fact that it is easier to unearth a well-buried seed of an oak tree than to try and excavate a Mocha Frappuccino Grande decked in whipped cream. With all that dirt flying, there's always the risk of ending up with too much ground in one's grounds.)

Think of this Starbucks phenomenon, then, as humans learning to Pay the Acorn Forward; the hazelnut here may be the flavor of a hand-crafted, blended Frappuccino beverage in a tall glass instead but what's going on here still constitutes the seed of a grand idea. Though squirrels rarely enjoy a reputation for altruistic acts, and even less of a reputation for being baristas with a social conscience, the fact remains that most nuts buried by one squirrel have a pretty decent chance of being consumed by another. Or, if left untouched for an extended period of time, those nuts producing an even greater gift to the world: a forest!

Who says squirrels don't have a giving spirit?

So let the Starbucks customers continue to dig down deep - into their pockets as well as their hearts - and unearth the kernel of kindness, Squirrel Style. It seems the idea isn't nuts, after all.

No shutdown of their appetites

Disgusted with a government shutdown that’s gone well into its second week, the squirrels of Washington, D.C., are taking the country back, one tomato at a time.

Stubborn, indolent Democrats and Republicans who populate Congress have shown very little fruits for their equally paltry labors but a lively bipartisan bunch of eastern grays has been enjoying the best fruits of all – the Presidential tomatoes – straight off the Pennsylvania Avenue vine.

And it's all occurred while federally funded gardeners are furloughed, reaping only the worst of a bumper crop of shame. Since the start of the shutdown earlier this month, no one has been paid to clean up here, so Washington, D.C.’s squirrels, ever the patriots, have stepped up to the plate. And cleaned that plate well.

Everywhere there are tell-tale toothmarks in the Presidential peppers. In the White House garden, “squash” is no longer a crop but an action verb enacted by brazen bushytails. And as the nation’s debt crisis threatens to mushroom, chanterelles and portobellos are having their caps raised, again and again.

And all the while, Congress sits and vegetates.

A greater crisis looms, America, and it is a direct result of this horticultural coup d’etat: Consider the now-looming threat of squirrel obesity facing our nation as this Harvest Without End continues, and will continue ad infinitum, until Congress takes some action to end it along with the shutdown.

Otherwise, we shall picture soon a nation of squirrels with all the health issues concomitant with binge-eating and obesity, though not a single one of them even qualifies to receive treatment under Obamacare.

The squirrels will not stop until they press some gnawing sense of reality into our lawmakers. We can be sure of it. Because once the White House garden is finally devoid of anything but remnants of the fertilizer so pervasive throughout our nation's capital, the squirrels will discover they are, sadly, no different from most American citizens:

Completely fed up.

Squirrels, the first to Twerk

The squirrels are up there in the trees and they're twerking. Unlike Miley Cyrus, they don't need a duet with Robin Thicke or the hot, sweaty glare of the VMA's cameras to get them going. Squirrels are naturals at twerking. It's a little-known fact that squirrels were the first to twerk, and were going at it long before the Dawn of Man. In fact, even after humans conceived of the Electric Slide or even the Twist and proclaimed it cool, squirrels had perfected the well-executed twerk, shaking that bushytailed booty and turning "twerk" from an action verb to an action hero!

Sadly the squirrels never trademarked those early rodent gyrations or hired an agent or even an entertainment lawyer, or they wouldn't still be in the parks today, begging for handouts. The squirrels would OWN

 the parks! And we'd be ones begging: "Twerk it again, Sam. Play 'Misty' for me and add some twerk, would you, for old time's sake?"

But squirrels are, after all, pragmatic creatures. Twerking the old-fashioned way might have accomplished a great caloric burn - all that rump-rotation doesn't come easy, after all - but it is largely a nonproductive enterprise. Enter Darwin's little-known theory, Survival of the Twerkiest: Squirrels, through the years, have thus refined the not-so-gentle art of the twerk, moving the critical focal point of the grinding action from posterior to anterior. 

Now the squirrels' most impressive nonstop gyration occurs between their teeth.

Tooth-twerking is hot - but it's not easy on the incisors.

Still, at least the end result is something tangible. Or, more accurately, edible. Squirrels have actually transformed twerking into an agribusiness, and they are the captains of their industry. Where music once celebrated the Sultans of Swing, rodentdom pays homage to these Titans of Twerk.

Human twerkers just don't seem to get this. They still haven't stopped twerking their bottoms long enough to sit down on those same seat cushions and ruminate upon the relative uselessness of their otherwise lazy rumps. It is time to evolve, from the bottom up. Squirrels may not win any VMA awards before music fans and TV audiences, but they're ahead of the game when it comes to the economy of effort expended. They're not lazy. They know you have to move it to groove it and, as such, they have become the twerkmasters of the universe.

As for the humans still mindlessly grinding away at it, the old-fashioned way - just remember that in the squirrels' eyes, this form of the twerk has simply bottomed out.

Requiem

Sometimes on a bad morning, before I have a chance to remember, I still look for him. There in the rush of gray that greets me with its collective demand for pecans and walnuts, I wait for the eager, open face and the familiar drag of the crimped right front paw.

Ghastly as it was at first, the injury never seemed to hold the same significance for him as it did for me. In fact, few things stopped this squirrel in the year we shared beginning last spring, when he first showed up outside my sliding glass door. As-yet uninjured and enduringly photogenic, he captured me with his robust personality and the steadiness of his routine. Barely a month into our friendship, an encounter with a mystery predator left his right front paw permanently mangled and, for a time, infected and horrifically swollen. He kept his morning appointments and would sometimes add an afternoon encore. But he made it clear he wanted only my food, not my sympathy and most certainly not my help.

Then barely a week later, a new assault, one that left his richly bushed tail reduced to a half-torn flag waving in not-quite-surrender. The encounter had left the tail's disconnected remnant beneath a nestbox he'd called home for a short while in one of our maples. I scooped up the shard, placing it for safekeeping in a plastic bag, and sealed it.

I must have believed at the time this was how I could keep this independent spirit close forever.

And nothing slowed or stopped him. Not the blasting heat of that summer, not the subsequent superstorm of autumn, and not the battering of winter blizzards that escorted the arrival of 2013. As spring marked our full year of feedings and greetings, his wildness was softened slightly by his boldness: He would hang on the screen door, tap on the glass for me, or simply sit and stare in each morning – and wait. If he did not look for me, I would look for him. Somehow, we would find one another.

But for this tough survivor, it was always at a distance he perceived as safe.

The head wound, when it appeared in late spring, was deceptive. The hair loss accompanying it mirrored the onset of mange, not uncommon among squirrels but not necessarily worrisome. He was, after all, not the only male squirrel sporting such patches, the hallmark of inter-squirrel squirmishes sparked by hormones in spring mating season.

It did not take long for infection to rim his eyes with pus and collect in pockets that altered the sculpture of his head. On a Sunday morning, I presented him with an option and he took it: He stepped into the carrying cage - and into my foolish hope of being able to save him.

The freedom he lost that day was only designed to be short-term. By nightfall, mortality had rewritten that plan. After burying him a day later beneath our tallest evergreen, I locked the sliding glass door and turned my back on that insistent, inexorable parade of gray.

But they have proven to be the unstoppable ones, just as he had always been. Undaunted by a population diminished by one, committed to their own troublesome survival, they will not give up on the hope that their collective demands for food will always be filled. And so in their wisdom and their need to go forward into their lives, they have shown far more grace than I ever could.

It humbles me. I thank them for their patience and for the lesson.

I unlock the door and turn to face them again.

When it ends up in the toilet

It seems that TSS - Toilet Squirrel Syndrome - has reared its watery head once more. If one is to believe the news reports, finding a squirrel in one's toilet is quickly becoming as commonplace as discovering a drippy faucet.

The latest toilet squirrel arrives by way of Canada, where a woman in Winnipeg, alerted by her dogs to a commotion in the commode, lifted the lid to find a drenched creature engaged in an unsuccessful struggle to climb out. Quick-thinking and compassionate, she fished the squirrel out with barbecue tongs, gently and mercifully rinsed him off in her bathtub with a small scoop of water, then set him free.

It is unclear how (or even why) the squirrel ended up a prisoner of the plumbing. Clearly he hadn't been looking for walnuts. This - like all the other toilet squirrels before - remains one of life's mysteries. The woman's concern and presence of mind saved a life (and her careful rinse job hopefully rescued some of the squirrel's dignity as well).

The story was widely covered by various news media, including MSN.com, the Vancouver Sun and the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. However, a later news account of this on the CBC website could not leave well enough alone. After relating a somewhat responsible account of the odd sequence of events leading to this highly unusual rescue, CBC chose to create a poll, asking its online readership a most critical, life-altering question: "What would you do if you found a squirrel in your toilet?"

The CBC staff then offered a choice among four pre-selected answers: 1. Get out the BBQ tongs, 2. Rescue it and enjoy my new pet, 3. Free it, 4. Flush!

Clearly Canada's oldest and most respected national broadcast network needs desperately to believe it can be cute, even if it means taking cheap shots at a small, frightened creature.

Fortunately, the little squirrel who'd encountered the kind Winnipeg homeowner managed to be rescued from the depths of the toilet.

The same cannot be said for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.

Let's tax the squirrels!

The sum of $16-trillion is not a pretty number - not unless it's your annual salary. But this is the sum of the United States national debt and that makes things pretty ugly.

Sequestration is not a pretty word either. Not for people serving on a jury, and certainly not for Americans affected by "the sequester," automatic spending cuts designed to trim the ugliness of the $16-trillion debt.

This could all be made to go away overnight, however, if we'd just look to an abundant source of revenue that's just under - or rather, above - our noses: The squirrels. Natives of our nation, from the mid-Atlantic's eastern greys to California's rock squirrels, they enjoy many of the benefits of citizenry with none of the burdens of responsibility: white ones are given police protection in Olney, Illinois; gray ones are North Carolina's official state mammal, and black ones are celebrated in and around Kent, Ohio. They live in the subsidized housing of public parks - those fine oaks and maples cultivated at municipal expense.

And everywhere, they receive handouts. Perhaps even from you.

Meanwhile, when was the last time you saw a squirrel visit the Internal Revenue Service? How many CPAs have told you, at tax time, they are suffering from having a backlog of squirrels wanting help in filing their state and federal returns? Even citizen wildlife rehabbers - volunteers all - have been taking in their orphans as our own dependents to raise in foster care. We also cover their medical expenses and, yes, many of us have incurred motor vehicle expenses after hitting the brakes (or a guide rail or a tree) to spare the lives of those foolish enough to not know the rules of the road-crossing.

The squirrels, bless their hearts, sit in the trees and chitter at us. Or is that hysterical laughter?

So let's tax the squirrels. All of them. Let's put arboreal squirrels in the higher brackets - given their high position in the trees. And the burrow-dwellers be responsible for levies at a more down-to-earth percentage.

True, we run the risk of rodent revolution: Imagine a nation of squirrels dumping their nuts in Boston Harbor.

But it's time. With squirrel taxation we can end sequestration and get our country back on all fours again.

We deserve to be out of the red - and into the black or, at the very least, the gray.

Justice for Puxsutawney Phil

Punxsutawney Phil emerged from his burrow last month but he's finding himself in an even bigger hole now: He is at the top of the list on America's Most Wanted. The prognosticating groundhog has been charged with perpetration of meteorological fraud, plotting to obliterate the vernal equinox and deliberately trying to snow the public.

In fact, the brazenly wintry mixes in the weeks following Phil’s February forecast for spring has left most folks feeling frosted.

There's no shadow of doubt: this woodchuck has enemies, and plenty of them. Someone's looking to put him on ice. Permanently.

What’s a renegade rodent to do? There is always the federal Woodchuck Protection Program. Let the Department of Justice cloak Phil in a new coat of fur, devise a new identity, and pair him with a career counselor to re-engineer his skills. By bringing his talents up to 21st century levels, Phil can cast off that 17th century mumbo jumbo that reflects the Druids and their devout Groundhoggisms, all those out-of-date practices that got the poor fellow into this meteorological mess in the first place.

Surrender, Phil: In an age of weather satellites and weather apps, the only answer is to give yourself up while there’s still time. Your best efforts have already been outsourced to technology, Satellites do it better from the sky than you could ever do on the ground (or below it).

Besides, now there’s a price on your head.

Would a new career be so bad? Insider information tells us there’s going to be an opening soon for another important seasonal post, a spot that is guaranteed to make you as loved and cherished as Santa Claus: It seems the Easter bunny is in contract for a condo in Boca Raton and anticipates retiring in just a few weeks to a life of golfing, shopping and playing poker. It might take a little surgery (well, your ears were always way too small anyway), and a few Zumba lessons to teach you how to hop, but this might end up being a nice fit.

Punxsutawney Phil, the Easter Woodchuck: now there's a good egg everyone can love.

Weathering Phil's prediction

Now is the winter of our discontent.

Or at least of our discord.

The extended frigid season doesn’t stand a shadow of a chance of lasting too long, according to predictions delivered today in Punxsutawney, Pa.

Phil, the nation’s official groundhog has spoken – if not in the traditional verbal sense, at least through his body language. Neither he nor urban cousin Staten Island Chuck glimpsed the outline of their sleepy, corpulent forms lurking in the shadows beneath the glare of national publicity.

On Long Island, however, Malverne Mel and Holtsville Hal beg to differ – and trust me, groundhogs don’t take an especially sanguine approach to begging. Thrust from their cozy, frostbound snoozes into the spotlight of our selfish curiousity, the suburban pair saw no climate change, at least not for at least six more weeks.

Groundhogs don’t have their acts together this year, and that’s a bit disconcerting. Lack of such species consensus can readily lead into more dangerous territory: Imagine soon a split among their ranks, for instance, into Republicans and Democrats. (We already know those parties don’t see eye-to-eye on anything, especially climate change.) From there it could lead to a religious uprising, with fundamentalist and New Age groundhogs debating the merits of prognostication, hibernation and even eternal damnation.

So let’s hope for an intervention – and fast. Some kind of mediator should be able to help the groundhogs get their acts together again.

Frankly, the alternative leaves us cold.

Saving lives, then taking dozens more

Some public acts turn the head, others the stomach. This is a case of the latter:

The Holley Fire Department, of upstate N.Y., is a bastion of life-saving volunteerism, comprised - according to its website - of a community of volunteers that has at their disposal two pumpers, a ladder truck, a grass fire/utility truck and other vehicles designed to preserve the sanctity of lives in peril. These are rescuers who on a moment's notice dispatch emergency medical services to care for their fellow residents whose lives and property are at risk - and, following moments of horror, sacrifice and personal sadness, also honor the fallen brethen who died honorably among them.

There is no question that putting one's life on the line, especially when rumuneration is little more than a thank you, is no mere trifle. Not everyone is capable of being moved by the volunteer spirit. It speaks to only a select few.

The same can be said about the killing spirit, particularly when the killing is done in cold blood - mass killings at movie theaters, shopping malls and too many schools have borne this truth recently. There are those who say such sort of hard-edged slaughter has to be nurtured, starting in childhood. Indeed, this very theory is central - even now - to our nation's hot-button debate on gun control, a dialectic being echoed here in New York State's Capitol building too.

So this leads to the question of why such a life-embracing team of courageous, unpaid souls would dispatch small children into the woods with loaded weapons to compete in something called "The Seventh Annual Squirrel Slam." Yes, this means six such contests have already preceded this one, leaving bags of kids' prized grey and red squirrel carcasses in their annual bloody wake.

What is the price of one life, anyway?

Inquire of the Holley Fire Department membership and by virtue of these volunteers' selfless deeds in safeguarding the human community, they will affirm that life is undoubtedly without price. It is worth saving at all costs and personal risk. Ask any firefighter's widow who lost half of her heart in a smoky blaze. Ask children whose father was overcome in the embrace of a building that collapsed around him.

But ask that question again on Sat., Feb. 16, and fire officials will tell you the price of one life: It is $50 cold cash. That's the top prize for the single fattest dead squirrel bagged by any child's gunshot. (And no cheating, folks: As the website advises "No internal packing or soaking of squirrels for added weight." You obviously cannot make one of these lives worth more than it is really worth.)

For a team effort, netting five dead squirrels, the reward is greater: The children get $200 to share among themselves. And in the spirit of progress, the good people of Holley's fire department have added a new category, making kids 14 and younger eligible to join in the slaughter. These prepubescent soldiers of fortune also qualify now to bring their dead fatties in for $50. Hey it sure beats waiting for that weekly allowance.

So Annie, get your gun. Better yet, get your tickets. They're $10 apiece from the volunteer rescuers of Holley and that price includes refreshments after the slaughtered animals have all been weighed. A mere $10. You can't even get a good movie ticket for that price.

Still, with $50 or more in hand, the victors can probably afford to go to the movies now and even treat their friends. Perhaps they'll take in a special screening of "The Hunger Games," watching teens just a few years older than themselves in that violent, dystopian Hollywood drama taking aim with their bows, arrows and guns. But this time, it will be on one another.

No presidential conspiracy

Looks like the squirrels owe President Barack Obama an apology - and rightfully so. Although there was no conspiracy to upstage him, Monday, Jan. 21 - Presidential Inauguration Day and Martin Luther King Day - just happens to fall on Squirrel Appreciation Day. As conflicting major holidays go, this is turning out to be a real contest for the hearts and minds of the American people.

Granted, the president gets a parade - but how does one day's pomp and procession possibly compare to the grand promenades queueing down daily from the trees in our parks and outside our homes?

As for the Oath of Office? Think about this, folks: Article 2, Section 1 of the Constitution - which establishes that oath - isn't necessary for squirrels. Do they really need a formal, public and pre-scripted affirmation of their mission?

"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully crack all the nuts I can find in these United States, and will to the best of my constitution, bury, cache and defend them."

As for inaugural banquets, visit any outdoor venue with more than a half-dozen pecan or filbert trees and you've got a gourmet gorgefest right there. Washington's ceremonial 3,000-calorie binge on clam chowder, bison and wild huckleberry reduction holds no appeal to the squirrels.

However, we do understand: Squirrel Appreciation Day is a solemn occasion, so it's no wonder the president wants in on some of the action. The squirrels are willing to share some of their 24-hour period and let the light shine on someone else for a bit.

No doubt, however, one of the best-kept secrets in Washington is sure to get out by the time the ceremony gets going. In the color of his suit, the most observant among us will surely discern the truth: If it is a subtle shade of grey - as is likely - we know President Obama is really using the occasion of his return to the White House to express his inner squirrel.

And on Jan. 21, of all days, the squirrels are certain to appreciate that.

Your best investment yet

On Jan. 27, U.S. postal rates are poised for another increase. A Congressional deal to avoid the so-called "fiscal cliff" has hiked payroll taxes for workers. Gasoline isn't getting any cheaper. (The air, at least is still free).

But there is one cost-effective entity we can always count on, year after year: The squirrels.

Thanks to something called the Rodent Multiplier Effect, a little-known mathematical marvel, squirrels make it easy to maximize many of your investments with a minimum of effort: How else could you expend one walnut and get back 10 squirrels? (Note: This is only a theoretical model, actual results may vary.)

And with what other investment could you establish one simple wooden nestbox in a tree and, in no sooner than a week, discover you have attracted at least a half dozen occupants? The Rodent Multiplier Effect is not only foolproof, it is often swift beyond measure.

The most dramatic, if not chaotic form of investment, is to hang a birdfeeder: The almost immediate return comes as an ample supply of squirrels -- admittedly they are often the unintended result of such an avian-friendly gesture, but nonetheless they do comprise an excellent return on your investment. Stocks and bonds, money market funds and precious metals seem, by contrast, as flighty, mercurial and unstable as a member of the U.S. Congress.

It's sad that financial planners never advise their clients to consider a Grey Market investment. Still, in boom and bust economies, the squirrels are a constant - better than an annuity, and with minimum maintenance fees attached. Never mind if the Dow is up or down, squirrels are steadfast, hanging on your screens, looking in your back window, waiting on your front porch. You can count on it.

In these changing economic times, this is a comfort. Squirrels' characteristically high interest rates are unrestricted by law. And it's a certainty that their activity will climb: for them, the only way is up.

As we teeter between regression, recession and depression, we can find some peace in knowing that scratching sound we hear isn't coming from a wolf at the door -- just a 2-pound financial adviser who's eager to get down to business, squirreling things away for the long winter ahead.

A Congress of squirrels

The 113th Congress of Squirrels has gathered today to renew their oath of office - and with it, no doubt, the partisan squabbling over whose district is in line to get the best nuts in the forest.

We're not talking here about political pork. Squirrels are notoriously vegetarian, for the most part. So the squawking will likely center, as it often does, on who gets the pick of the fattest acorns and - at this time of the year - who gets to breed with the fluffiest of the forest femmes.

Within the dominant party, the Squeaker of the House must be reaffirmed too. Squirrels, rugged individualists that they are, are simply more effective with this kind of leadership.

Then there is the smaller but just-as-important matter of selecting the Minority Chip. Ground squirrels (even the tiniest of the tiny chipmunks) need to get in on the political action too because most of our nation's meaningful legislation begins at the ground, if not the grassroots, level. Bringing it back to the burrow is sometimes the best way to get things done.The only challenge, one supposes, will be keeping this particular representative from nodding off during session and going into full-tilt hibernation - not unlike some humans, glazed over by the endless partisan bickering.

When it comes to threat of filibuster, though, these gnawmakers' preferences are more likely to turn instead to filberts as a means of cracking the national debt. Their job is to cache enough of them away, ensuring a multi-trillion dollar national deficit could never blight their landscape, at least not on their watch.

Yes, perhaps some resources will be diverted elsewhere: They will consider sending aid to the embattled red squirrels in the United Kingdom to help them contain the fevered spread of pox that has killed so many of their Eurasian cousins. Or maybe ship some assistance to India to ensure the continued protection of the striped squirrels there.

Back home, there is the continued and urgent vigilance to secure the future of our nation's pride - the prairie dog - and this effort too must be given the funding to succeed.

Fear not, it will get done by this tiniest of Congress - at least in our dreams. Because while squirrels don't find necessarily get their thrill from Capitol Hill (and who does?), all that squawking and tail-flicking doesn't go on forever.

Eventually the squirrels get down to business for the greater good of the species.

If only such radical ideas were humanly possible too.

And now, the weather pawcast

A post-Christmas storm closed in on parts of the U.S. this week as meterologists nervously assessed the patterns for various regions of the nation. But their most sophisticated tools, however well-calibrated they may have been, were clearly outpaced by some of the smallest, oldest - and yes, greyest - storm survivors known to the planet.

Forget barometric pressure: Nut-o-metric Pressure is where it's at.

True forecasting at this time of year comes from divining the truths inherent in the obsessive collection of almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts and pecans. The squirrels' technique is failsafe, even if it does tax a feeder's nut budget. Squirrels have never been famous for doing anything on the cheap.

From at least 8:45 a.m. until well past 2 p.m. this past Wednesday, the outdoor scene, from suburbia to the sticks, was very much a cache-and-carry affair for the squirrels, who carried the keys to the next 24 hours of weather activity carefully between their teeth.

This forecasting system may well date back to the days of Scrat, the prehistoric squirrel whose understated glories came to the forefront in the series of animated "Ice Age" movies. Ah, Hollywood does not do Scrat's talents justice. Talk about a squirrel with overwhelming power and prescience: He not only predicted the Ice Age - his lust for a single acorn caused it!

So if you want to know the possible strength of winds heading your way, talk to the small mother squirrel with the blunted tail and the engagingly dirty nose. The size of her carry-away stash foretells exactly the speeds the region will be buffeted by in just a few hours. Curious about the rawness of the temperatures and the abundance of the downpour yet to come? The chubby, slightly tilted fellow is resolute in creating a nut larder to see him through the ordeal.

Nut-o-Metric Pressure is world-renowned for such precision.

You could, of course, try convincing a squirrel to pose on your living room mantle, replacing that heirloom barometer passed down by great-great-grandpa. But it would be far more practical (and make for a happier squirrel) if you opened the front window or back door and tossed a few well-placed pecans. Interpreting a Nut-o-metric Pressure reading is deceptively intuitive: The greater the demand for nuts, the higher the degree of preparedness is needed for the meteorological mess that lies ahead.

The 17th century English poet Robert Herrick may have exhorted us to "gather ye rosebuds while ye may," but 21st century squirrels make weathercasting, in just this way, its own kind of simple poetry.

Nutcracker Suite-hearts

Finding holiday inspiration within the hard coldness of Russia's Ural Mountains, Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky still should have known about the squirrels: When the 19th century composer set the magical story of an enchanted nutcracker to music in 1892, crafting "The Nutcracker Suite," he really should have done his homework first.

Squirrels, after all, don't just have an ethereal quality but were always the original nutcrackers. And as the Christmas season wraps itself around us, we are again charmed by Tchaikovsky's presentation of young Clara's romantic dream of a nutcracker prince. We watch the couple's affectionate pas de deux play out on stage.

Then, peering outside our own windows to a real-life stage beyond our homes, we see squirrel libidos engaged in a more shameless pas-de-do-it-and-do-it-again-and-again. The elegance and charm of tutus and tights have nothing to do with this rodentian wrestling match. There is nothing sweet about what these nutcrackers are doing.

Tell us, Tchaikovsky, what's a Sugar Plum Fairy to do? We could seek counsel from the squirrel-savvy Mouse King and his loyal army -- the antagonists of the "Nutcracker" tale -- but who wants advice from the bad guys?

Besides, the king gets killed off early in the story. (The classical version of the "Nutcracker" is devoid of sex but not of violence, garnering Tchaikovsky a modern-day "PG-13" rating.)

However, the dance outside our doors is more akin to "50 Shades of Eastern Grey," with a passion that might melt even Tchaikovsky's most brutal Russian mountain snows.

Wildlife rehabilitators need to forget Tchaikovsky altogether. It's time to compose ourselves instead: For the fictional Clara may awaken from her "Nutcracker" dream beneath the Christmas tree embracing her treasured wooden nutcracker toy - and the prince will have vanished back into her dream.

But when wildlife caretakers awaken (even ones named Clara), the prince hasn't gone anywhere - and neither has the princess. They are grey, bushytailed, and their hormones are in full reproductive rage.

In the kingdom of the woods, squirrels are the reigning princes and princesses. And even once Christmas has long passed, the impassioned mating dance of these nutcrackers will go on.

Nuts to this parade!

Macy's annual Thanksgiving pageantry of floats and fancy footwork is no match for a certain timeless backyard promenade. It's a longstanding tradition of parades that, over the years, never mandated any holiday be declared before the personalities readily queued up, marching with perfect precision: Sumo, Almondo, Mr. Tilty, WhiteSpot, Balducci, Little Notch Ear, Silas Marner, Sunshine, Calypso, The Brothers Grimm, Sylvie and, the very first, Scoiattolo.

Frankly, Spider-Man, Snoopy, Kermit the Frog and Papa Smurf - all of them little more than cartoon balloons - prove to be New York City lightweights in the face of parade professionals such as these.

Linus and Charlie Brown, prepare for the deflating news: Squirrels not only have their feet on the ground, they've got their paws right down in the dirt. They're the only marching band in the procession of time that we really need to mark the passage of another season. After all, if Thanksgiving is a time of bounty, who knows more about harvesting and putting things away for the winter than those who measure their steps outside our windows and doors every day?

Sorry, Macy's. Let retail madness come and go with the shortest days and longest nights of the year. Some of us prefer to take our chances with bushytail madness instead.

No rationale for rationing

In the spectrum of epic power struggles, Obama vs. Romney wielded all the energy and intensity concomitant with high-voltage politics: Sparks flew, tempers flared and fuses blew.

But in the northeast, people have already unplugged from that temperamental circuit of ego and agenda, focusing instead on a more day-to-day power struggle, one measured in the kilowatt-hours that animate homes and businesses and in miles-per-gallon for vehicles. Or perhaps not being measured: A superstorm and trailing nor'easter left nothing behind for tens of thousands in the region but a cold, dark void.

It is preferable and simpler, on such an occasion, to measure out one's days in squirrels. Living their lives off the grid, their momentum powered only by their own primordial engines, squirrels' comings and goings are a reliable constant in a world suddenly devoid of any human surety but deprivation.

Squirrels are small generators fueled by tree nuts and acorns, simple abundant energy that is "green" - after all, acorns and nuts are the genesis of trees. Gathering nuts requires no drilling, no hydrofracking, no windmills, no mining.

As "odd-even license plate" rationing takes hold for motorists to stem the region's gasoline panic, squirrels brazenly ignore the governmental directive and queue up en masse at the base of trees and at our doors and windows: There is no need for "odd-even" days to fill their larders. In any case, with squirrels being four-legged (most of them, anyway), the "even" days would likely produce pandemonium beneath the maples.

Nut power! It is what allows squirrels' super-fast metabolism to generate STUs (Squirrel Thermal Units) which keeps them warm even in sub-zero temperatures. (Should you ever hear their teeth chattering, be assured it is not because they're cold.)

The fuel giants, the utility companies and even the automotive industry need to hire consultants from Woodland Energy Enterprises and learn to harness the enduring power of nuts that will weather a hurricane, a tornado, even a so-called "superstorm."

Ask for some input from the next squirrel you encounter: Likely he'll gnaw on the matter a bit, but if you're lucky, he'll get back to you, saying, "Let's do lunch."

Doing Election Day, Squirrel Style

The squirrels are back from the polling place. The lines, of course, were long. But when their turns came, they voted, as usual, without hesitation or ambiguity.

They know what it means to live in a Nutocracy. Whether one is a follower of Walnuts, Pecans or the fiercely independent Hazelnuts, squirrels value the right to elect the nut of their choosing.

Squirrels know that the dynamic of politics is, and always has been, the kind of shell game one can really sink their teeth into. These stalwart little citizens vote with their feet - lacking hands, they really have no choice, anyway.

And now, their Election Day duties done, they are back outside, begging for handouts. This is not Wildlife Welfare, however, nor government entitlement. It is their birthright as American Eastern Grey Squirrels to have free and open access to the fruit of America's trees. They constitute the swing vote, only in that they swing from the trees.

As the sun sets soon on Election Day 2012, and the nation faces change - or perhaps more of the same - I pledge allegiance once again to the squirrels, one of the few constants we can count on in a modern nation growing ever more distressed.

Never mind the blue or the red. I will always follow the grey. Long may their tails wave.

No great squirrel debate

In the American political landscape, where the present presidential skirmish once again pits the Blue against the Red, squirrels - who dwell happily in the land of the Grey - opt out:

Squirrels do not hold elections. Squirrels do not vote. Squirrels do not engage in politics. Thus squirrels have no need to engage in debate.

The world of the Eastern Grey is very much black and white: If you've got a nut, they'll take it. If you don't, there's no deal.

The squirrels' only campaign is to effectively charm you so you elect to empty your pockets in their presence. These nut offerings aren't political handouts, however. Nor are they campaign contributions. In this world populated by tree-dwelling citizens, acorns, walnuts and pecans are merelyy hard-earned wages from a full day of hard-core squirreling, a day's labor that begins as the sun rises, and doesn't cease 'til it sets.

And while squirrels can dig up dirt better than any political candidate, they're not looking to discredit any opponent. They're simply saving for the hard winter ahead.

Social Security? That's their "nut cache." Free medical care? It's called "wildlife rehabilitation" (and a squirrel is likely to qualify for it only if they're fortunate enough to be saved by a savvy rescuer).

There is a reason the donkey and the elephant were selected, over the squirrel, to symbolize American politics. Call them what you will, but American rivals Barack Obama and Mitt Romney are anything but squirrelly. Let them debate this season on every major network, in every state and on every stage, and let them hash out the national deficit, military conflicts, and the healthcare conundrum.

What it really comes down to is this: Can either candidate crack walnuts with his teeth? Can either build a nest in fewer than 24 hours? And can either man leap effectively from treetop branch to branch with the same energy they use to jump over each other's logic.

The world - and the voters - may be watching, but do the squirrels even care? That's debatable.

Squirrel is my co-pilot

What's next? Drivers' licenses for squirrels? It's only a matter of time, apparently, even though we already have more than our share of nuts behind the wheel.

Take the recent case of the Clay County, Florida motorist who was pulled over for DUI - driving under the influence. Turns out there was another reason he was driving distracted: He was also Driving Under the Influence of a Squirrel. A small bushytail was busy navigating the roadmap of the driver's chest hairs and had obviously entered a problematic intersection, or perhaps it was a bottleneck, somewhere in the southwest quadrant of the human's abdomen. Without any GPS to help him, the squirrel obviously freaked.

Still, a moving violation is a moving violation. The squirrel did not deserve a ticket but the driver clearly had one coming. Probably two: Owning a so-called "pet" squirrel may not have merited a fine but it's clear the squirrel - as seen in a video shot by the local TV station, WJXT - was quite young. Where was the government-mandated booster seat for infants and children? Had this driver been the parent of a 10-month-old, would he have considered it appropriate to stick the child in his underwear too?

As any Department of Motor Vehicle Commissioner will tell you, there are clearly proper ways to drive with a squirrel in one's vehicle. Pay heed then, to the example set by Pyotr Pankratau, who was a soldier in the Belarussian army when rescued a young Eurasian red squirrel. The creature who has so adapted to his caretaker's civilian lifestyle that he rarely leaves his side, even when Pankratau goes on his rounds as a taxi-driver.

It is noted that, in all photos seen on the Internet of Pankratau and his squirrel, Minsk, the animal is never shoved up his shirt. In fact, he keeps a respectful distance from any kind of underwear while on duty. Yes, in a few photos, Minsk is seen on the vehicle's dashboard - as an auto accoutrement one might liken to fuzzy dice or a living, breathing bobblehead doll - but let the record show that the taxi is always safely parked - and the engine is off - whenever the squirrel is in motion.

And he never gets behind the wheel.

Perhaps the philosophy of Squirrel Chauffeuring is a different matter in Belarus - or anywhere outside the United States, for that matter. But the safety issues are clear:

Before getting behind the wheel, park your squirrel somewhere safely. Drunk or sober, friends don't let friends drive squirrels.

Down to a science

Pity poor Galileo Galilei. The Italian astronomer-physicist first posited that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

Oh, it's not that this champion of the Scientific Revolution was wrong. But his timing surely was. The 17th century that marked Galileo's lifetime was at least three centuries before the birth of Squirrelfest. If only the wise professor from Pisa had been able to make his way to Longview, Washington this summer - thus crossing an ocean as well as a vast expanse of forward-moving time - he'd have experienced first-hand that many things can indeed occupy the same space at the same time through the magic of devotion to all things squirrel.

In Longview, residents celebrate the city's mascots by taking to the streets in this daylong event, which just marked its second year on Aug. 25. The day is a concurrent celebration of Thanksgiving, Christmas, Memorial Day and Independence Day.

Only in this Pacific Northwest city can these holidays occupy the same time and space in seeming defiance of scientific theory:

Longview gives thanks for its squirrels and for the safe roadway crossings many have enjoyed since 1963 when one kind resident, Amos Peters, built Longview's first squirrel bridge as a gift that would help ensure their safe street-crossings. The installation of "Nutty Narrows" eventually inspired two other bridges. This year's award-winning span, the city's third, was an aluminum design from a retired attorney who'd died only weeks before the dedication ceremony.

It's a pity Galileo didn't know of Squirrelfest. He would surely have embraced it for its squirrelcentricity. The scientist was among the first, after all, to stand beside Nicolaus Copernicus after the Renaissance astronomer declared his radical theory that - hold onto your acorns, folks! - the Earth and other planets revolved around the sun.

The sun? That's not necessarily as true in Longview, Washington. There, everything revolves around the squirrels - even the sun of Nicolaus Copernicus. Its own perfect squirrelcentric orbit is made even more perfect by the way its rays wash down brightly, illuminating their path as they cross the newest squirrel bridge in town, then leap gracefully to safety in sunlit woods beyond.