A Heartbreaking Letter about Squirrels

It's 11:10 A.M. at The Bookstore.

Dear Everyone*,

The recent dearth of posting has been, at the very least, deplorable. "Execrable" may perhaps be more fitting, but I found "reprehensible" too kind for you villains. Indeed, each one of you is behaving like a gluttonous story-squirrel, burying away the chestnuts of narrative under the cold snows of selfishness. How am I to know, squirrel-friend, about the health of your whiskers? Or about the bushiness of your tail? For all I know, your respective trees have been logged and shredded, and you and your squirrel-family lie flattened on a highway, your once glossy fur now imprinted with the cruel treads of a tire. I can no longer stand the sense of abandonment. Therefore, I have decided to find new friends.

Looking around the bookstore, I see a myriad of options. First, there is Richard, who, like a wise and friendly badger, serves my coffee every morning with gentle questions and sound advice. Richard's flattop and his penchant for hearty fruits (he is always trying to sell me a fruit salad, which I occasionally buy) add to his badger-like appearance. Additionally, most of the badgers I have known allow me to write reviews for the books in their stores. Richard has kindly chosen to do the same, showing him a true badger. He is option #1.

My second candidate for friendship is a woman I shall call Luna, though I do not know her name. From time to time, Luna meets older, wealthy white women in the café and speaks Spanish to them for an hour or so. I assume that they are paying her for her services, though it is possible she is just extremely friendly. She is a lovely woman and says "¡muy bien!" so emphatically, and with such an encouraging warmth, that I have chosen to think of her as a golden retriever. Every thirty seconds or so, she must fetch the wayward sentences of these women and bring them back, clutched gently between her jaws to the mesa. She reminds me of someone I used to know, before the great blog-nut-fallout of 2009, but the name escapes me. She is option numero dos.

Another bookstore employee, Kathy, also promises potential. So often I have seen her fluttering about her corner of the store, taking frightened customers under her wing and gossiping loudly about the books she's read lately. This practice is made all the juicier by the area in which Kathy works: Romance Novels. The entire section is labeled "Kathy's Picks," because she has read every book, cover to glossy cover. Because of her rapid head-movements and feathered gray hair, Kathy reminds me most of a woodpecker. I have considered re-naming her section "Kathy's Pecks," but Richard has not yet granted me this measure of power. He will soon see reason. She is option # 3.

So, squirrel-friends, if any of you are indeed still alive, I would consider your advice regarding my new companions. They seem like lovely people, the lot of them, and I'm sure that once we start chatting about John Updike's recent demise, the conversation will keep flowing, like a stream of pecans from a nut-laden tree.

Post, or I'll Flatten You Myself,

-A.

* This excludes you, Smithy.