The bird feeder went up on a Thursday.
By Saturday I had regulars: a cardinal who showed up like he owned the place, two dozen finches, three chickadees I suspected were the same chickadee.
The squirrels appeared Sunday.
Not at the feeder.
Just... around.
One on the fence.
One in the oak.
One watching the feeder with the detached focus of an auditor.
The first note arrived Monday, tucked into the seed port.
Rolled.
Bound with dental floss suspiciously similar to mine.
Letters gnawed into brown paper bag.
I did not buy peanuts.
TuesdaySUNFLOWER IS... INSULTING.
Three squirrels on the fence. One twitched its nose at me. It felt pointed.
WednesdayFront porch buried in acorns. Not scattered. Arranged. The note planted like a flag.
BUT PEANUTS. PREFERABLE.
BIRDS ARE STUPID. WE ARE... DISCERNING.
Nothing.
No acorns, no notes, no squirrels on the fence.
Just quiet in a way that felt deliberate.
I made coffee.
Noticed the brown paper bag on the counter.
Rolled, floss-tied.
This one was different.
Cursive.
Actual ink.
The handwriting of somewhere with cloth napkins.
Dear Human,
Thank you for your cooperation. The sunflower seeds were, admittedly, quite bland. We have taken the liberty of relocating operations to your pantry. The peanuts were adequate. We find, however, your artisanal cheese selection to be most promising.
Consider this a formal notice of intent to cohabitate. Resistance is futile. We have already eaten your car keys.
Sincerely,
The Management
There were eleven squirrels in my kitchen.
One was inventorying dry goods.
Another had removed every label from every spice jar.
One stood on the espresso machine with the posture of middle management.
The largest squirrel had somehow acquired reading glasses.
It looked at me.
Looked down at a clipboard.
Made a small mark.
Then continued inspecting the fruit bowl.
I made another coffee.
It seemed, at that point, the professional thing to do.