Birds aren't real
Okay, buckle up, because this is going to be weird, even for me. And trust me, I’ve seen some weird stuff.
It started with the bird feeder. I’d finally gotten around to hanging one in my backyard. Cute little thing, shaped like a tiny house. I filled it with sunflower seeds, because, you know, birds like sunflower seeds. Or so I thought.
The birds loved it. Chickadees, finches, even a grumpy-looking cardinal showed up. It was like a Disney movie in my backyard, except with bird poop. But hey, nature, right?
Then came the squirrels. Standard suburban squirrels, the kind that look at you like you owe them money and then proceed to bury nuts in your potted plants. I expected them to try and raid the feeder. I’d even bought a “squirrel-proof” one, with those little metal cages around the seed ports. Ha. Foolish mortal me.
They didn’t bother with the feeder. Not at first. Instead, they started… watching me.
I’d be out in the yard, watering the pathetic excuse for a lawn I had, and I’d see them. Perched on the fence, clinging to the branches of the oak tree, just… staring. Not like they were plotting an attack or anything. Just… observing. It was unsettling, but I figured they were just curious about the new feeder. Maybe they were bird paparazzi.
Then the notes started.
The first one was tucked into the door of the feeder. Tiny, rolled up, tied with a piece of what looked suspiciously like my own dental floss. I almost threw it away, thinking it was just debris. But something made me unroll it.
It was written on a scrap of brown paper bag, in what looked like… bite marks. Seriously. Like someone had gnawed the letters into the paper with their teeth. It said:
“MORE PEANUTS. LESS SUNFLOWER.”
Okay. Weird. I chalked it up to some neighborhood kids playing a prank. But… bite marks? Dedicated pranksters, I’ll give them that.
I ignored it. Sunflower seeds were what I had, sunflower seeds were what the birds got. Besides, squirrels eat nuts, right? They could find their own peanuts.
The next day, another note. This time, it was jammed under my windshield wiper. Again, rolled, floss-tied, bite-mark lettering.
“PEANUTS. NOW. SUNFLOWER IS… INSULTING.”
Insulting? To whom? The squirrels? Were the squirrels offended by sunflower seeds? This was getting ridiculous. I glanced around. Sure enough, three squirrels were on the fence, staring at me. One of them twitched its nose in what I could only interpret as… disdain.
I still didn’t give them peanuts. I’m not going to be bullied by squirrels. This is America, damn it. I stood my ground.
Big mistake.
The following morning, I woke up to find my front porch… decorated. With acorns. Hundreds of acorns. Piled up against the door, overflowing onto the steps. It looked like the world’s worst acorn avalanche. And, you guessed it, another note, wedged into the acorn pile like a tiny, gnawed-lettered flag.
“ACORNS. ACCEPTABLE. BUT PEANUTS. PREFERABLE. BIRDS ARE STUPID. WE ARE… DISCERNING.”
Okay, now I was starting to get creeped out. And slightly impressed. These were some organized, demanding, and surprisingly literate squirrels. And the "birds are stupid" part? Harsh, but… kind of funny.
I still resisted. I’m stubborn, okay? Plus, where was I even supposed to get peanuts in bulk? Costco? Would they even sell squirrel-grade peanuts?
That night, I slept fitfully. Every rustle of leaves, every creak of the house, I imagined it was squirrels, plotting their next move. I even had a nightmare where I was buried alive in a giant peanut shell by a legion of tiny, buck-toothed overlords.
The next morning, I braced myself. What would it be this time? My car covered in pine cones? My mailbox stuffed with chewed-up leaves?
I opened the front door, and… nothing. The porch was clear. No acorns, no notes, no squirrels staring from the fence. Just… quiet. Weirdly, eerily quiet.
Maybe they’d given up. Maybe they’d moved on to terrorize another bird feeder owner. Maybe they’d realized the futility of arguing with a human about peanut preferences. I almost felt… relieved. And a little guilty. Maybe I should have gotten them peanuts. Just to appease the tiny, bite-mark note-writing overlords.
I went into the kitchen to make coffee. As I reached for the coffee beans, I noticed something on the counter. A small, brown paper bag. Rolled up, floss-tied. My heart sank. Not again.
I unrolled it, expecting another demand for peanuts, another insult about sunflower seeds, maybe even a squirrel haiku about my terrible landscaping.
But this note was different. It wasn’t written in bite marks. It was written in… perfect, elegant cursive. In ink. On high-quality paper. It looked like it belonged in a fancy restaurant, not a squirrel ransom note.
It read:
“Dear Human,
Thank you for your cooperation. The sunflower seeds were, admittedly, quite bland. We have taken the liberty of relocating our operations to your pantry. The peanuts were… adequate. However, we find your selection of artisanal cheeses to be most… promising.
Consider this a formal notice of our intent to cohabitate. Resistance is futile. We have already eaten your car keys.
Sincerely,
The Management.”
I slowly turned around. And that’s when I saw them. Not in the backyard, not on the fence, but in my kitchen. Sitting on the counter, perched on the spice rack, even nestled in the fruit bowl. Dozens of squirrels. Not just staring. But… sampling. One was delicately nibbling on a piece of aged cheddar. Another was sniffing a truffle oil bottle with a connoisseur’s air. A third was actually reading a cookbook, propped open against a jar of olives.