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When most folks think of fearless animals, they picture lions roaring on the savannah, wolves howling at the moon, or maybe a buffalo charging across the plains.
You know what doesn’t usually make the list?
Squirrels.
At least not until this morning.
It was the day we turned the clocks back, so naturally my internal wiring was in full revolt. Thanks to my ADHD brain, time changes hit me like a raccoon in a tumble dryer—no sense of direction and mildly feral. So there I sat in the recliner, staring out at the sunrise, willing my neurons to start firing in the same order as the Keurig.
That’s when I noticed the trees.
The tops of our 80-to-100-foot giants began to sway, dip, and shimmy like backup dancers in a squirrel-sized Vegas revue. At first I thought it was the wind, but then I saw them—a half-dozen acrobatic maniacs scaling vertical trunks, sprinting out onto twig-thin branches that bent so far down they looked ready to snap.
Then came the jumps. These little fur-rockets were launching themselves through midair from one treetop to another like Cirque du Soleil had opened a new “Nutcracker” division. I swear, one did a triple twist that would’ve earned a perfect 10 from Olympic judges.
For several minutes, I sat there mesmerized—wondering if they ever missed, if they ever smacked into each other, or if there was a tiny squirrel paramedic waiting below with a walnut-shaped stretcher. By the time they finally scampered off to new territory, my ADHD brain was wide awake, wired, and ready for anything.
So, forget lions and wolves.
Around here, true courage wears a fluffy tail and mocks the laws of physics.