Squirrels are assholes. They’re the only animal that sounds like they’re swearing when they make their “cute” little animal noises. I’ve heard stories about them stealing food out of people’s hands when they have lunch in the park. They watch. They wait. And in 2006, they went to war with me.

The first salvo began at our house in Bloomington, Indiana, when I was living with my wife. We had floor-to-ceiling windows that opened at the bottom, onto our front porch, and it was a warm enough day that we did just that. A squirrel descended from one of the majestic oak trees in our front yard to enjoy his tasty acorn on our porch, right out front of the open window. At the same time, we had three young cats, aged six, six, and two. They parted the vertical blinds and crouched, so tense I was worried they’d spontaneously combust, staring, glaring, and chattering in that way that they think is imitating wildlife. I don’t have the heart to tell them it actually sounds like a cat chattering. Eventually the squirrel strutted away, and they were so wound up afterwards, they started their own little war that permanently damaged parts of the house.

They weren’t done with us. I don’t know if this was the same squirrel. (I know, it’s speciesest to say, “They all look alike, but they do.”) This time, Kate ordered to get rid of it before the cats exploded. I grabbed our porch-sweeping room and stepped outside. An ordinary squirrel would have run away at that point, but this was no ordinary squirrel. This was personal. I poked it, and it didn’t move. So I charged it, and it fled. When I chased it to a tree that it shimmied up, I figured it was over. It was not. It circled the trunk and swung back over, inches from the bristles of my broom, swearing at me. After enduring the verbal abuse long enough, I backed away and retreated inside. Later, a friend would ask me what I would have done if it had jumped onto the broom. “I would have screamed in a very unmasculine manner, dropped the broom, and retreated inside.” I didn’t add that I’d probably go to the bathroom in my pants.

Then there was the kamikaze squirrel that jumped in front of my car one day. That “crunch” haunted me for years. I’m certain that instilling guilt in me was the purpose of that admittedly heroic sacrifice.

But the war climaxed one beautiful spring day when I left for work. Our porch wasn’t much of a porch, per se, but rather a concrete landing with a couple of chairs for smoking cigarettes and a canopy. That morning, when I stepped out from under said canopy, breathing in that pollen on a perfect sweater day, and a squirrel landed on my head. I screamed, and the squirrel screamed and scrambled off of my skull, leaving behind a scalpful of scratches.

It failed to kill me, which I’m not sure was its goal. I think it wanted to intimidate me. Well done, squirrel. After that, the hostilities ceased. I see them, munching on their snacks—a lot of them snacks left behind by the litterers that live in our neighborhood—planning their next move. Luckily, there are no trees near my new apartment (there’s a beautiful neighborhood about a block southeast, though), but I can never relax. I know they’re out there, watching me. Waiting.

Happy National Squirrel Appreciation Day! Be afraid. Be very afraid.