ROCKFLOUR

The forest is a labyrinth of hunger thanks to my small-minded cousin – the grey squirrel. I don’t know where my next meal is coming from and I’m suffering. I’m going mad, I can tell. I need nuts. I hate the grey squirrel and its monstrous appetite. An unwanted guest, eating me out of house and home. There’s no clarion call; there’s no cavalry. The red squirrel population has been decimated and morale is low. Fundamentally my North-American cousin is inbred, dumb and greedy. It’s not a bully just a gluttonous child leaving nothing for its more diminutive, red-haired cousin. I can see them now from my lofty perch, scavenging like starved hyenas. I crossed the road the other day without looking. It wasn’t my time but death doesn’t scare me; I know the smell of it, the feel of it, I see it in my dreams and I’m not intimidated. I’m living a Native-American nightmare - a victim in my own home.