There he (or she) is, all fluffed up against the cold wind, clinging to the old ash tree and peering through the kitchen window at me as I stand looking out with morning tea in hand. The face is a study in mischievous curiosity, forbearance, and the fond hope that someone will flounder outside and replenish the feeders in the garden, one of which is just for squirrels. After the recent heavy snowing, it is a wonder we can still see the feeders at all.
One after another, village squirrels are appearing in the garden like a procession of little grey Buddhas. They perch on the trees and await their turn at the breakfast buffet, their faces full of longing, tiny paws are tucked into their belly fur for warmth.
Spencer, on the other hand, shows no enthusiasm for going anywhere in this kind of damp cold. He is curled up on the sofa in the den with a morose expression, gazing out at the murky world beyond the windows and grumbling expressively. Christmas, he mutters, will there be cookies?
23 December, 2012
resting easy in companions