I once had an encounter in the woods — a perfect example of how spring can quietly undermine a squirrel’s reputation.
It was April, that time of year when squirrels look like old plush toys that have survived far too many wash cycles. Right in this in-between phase, I came across one: clearly young, energetic, but dressed in what I can only politely describe as a… transitional wardrobe.
We’re used to seeing this little creature as a fluffy charmer: in winter, wrapped in a serious grey coat with elegant ear tufts; in summer and autumn, a lean, russet bundle of restless energy. But April brings an undignified yet essential phase — the spring molt. My heroine looked as though she’d been hastily assembled from two different squirrels: patches of fresh ginger fur poking through the fading grey of her winter coat. Ear tufts? Gone.
She was lean, slightly scruffy, and intensely businesslike.
She hopped around on the forest floor right in front of me, completely unbothered by my presence. In spring, it seems their priorities shift from caution to calories. After winter, reserves run low, and squirrels turn into determined foragers, searching for anything edible: old caches, seeds, nuts — whatever managed to survive the snow. This particular one was methodically sniffing the leaf litter, making short dashes and occasionally freezing, as if trying to recall the exact coordinates of a treasure she’d buried months ago.
Unfortunately, I had nothing suitable to offer.
After rummaging through the dirt with little success and, apparently, giving up on getting any treats from me, she switched tactics and dashed for the trees. One jump, another — and suddenly she was perched inside a makeshift bird feeder.
Whether it was an act of desperation or caution simply giving way to sheer audacity, I couldn’t say, but forest etiquette had clearly been abandoned.
A couple of seconds later, she had settled on a branch with her prize, a nut, and was gnawing at it with that focused, almost professional greed squirrels seem to possess. Naturally, I couldn’t resist and took a step closer for a few more shots — perhaps a bit faster and louder than the unwritten rules of forest observation would allow.
Instantly, she transformed from a calm gourmand into a jittery bundle of nerves: she dropped the nut, darted down with an indignant chatter, threw a brief tantrum on the ground, zigzagging back and forth, and then, in a flurry of reddish tufts, bolted into the woods.
In spring, squirrels are a bit more on edge than usual: food is scarce, fur is shedding, and the breeding season is just beginning. Show up, find something (or steal it), lose it immediately, and run — that’s their signature April strategy.
And watching her disappear, I found myself thinking that this slightly disheveled, restless little creature reflected spring itself surprisingly well — a bit chaotic, occasionally awkward, and, it seems, exactly as it should be.
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