When Odin, the All-Father of the Aesir, Slayer of Giants, Ruler of Asgard, who drinks mead from the skulls of fallen foes, hung on the World Tree for nine days, who kept him alive?

A squirrel.

When you buy a bird feeder that is absolutely, positively, guaranteed for life, double your money back, to feed birds and birds alone, who ends up eating all of the seeds?

A squirrel.

When I was in college, thinking of the simplest way to describe Robin Goodfellow, the Puck, maker of the most foul mischief in all the fairy realms, who did I think of?

A squirrel.

And when I left my house this morning, strolling to my car, with the sun shining on a fine Monday, who leapt out of the rain gutter and tried to kill me?

A squirrel.

I’ve never trusted those little bastards, they’re up to something; tormenting dogs and teasing my cats through closed windows; stealing food from parkgoers’ hands; watching us with their beady little eyes; tapping into powerlines with their black paws and chirping at each other in their secretive, rodent language; hiding in their bases of operations within in the facades of trees; collecting acorns for reasons we may never know; and today’s failed assassination attempt has revealed to me that they’re finally making their move.