At that moment, my gaze met that of a sweet, friendly squirrel. Our eyes met, and I felt something, a spark. I knew something special was about to happen.
But then I snapped back to reality.
The squirrel wasn’t alone. Several squirrels chimed in on making the strange squeaking sound (I guess you could call it a barbershop squirrel-tet am I right? Ha. No? Sheesh).
Why were they doing this? Were they sounding a warning alarm? Were they mating? Or were they talking shit? To who? Me? Each other? Was there a secret squirrel fight club that no one told me about?
So many questions, yet so few answers.
Realizing that my class would start soon, I, like the good millennial I am, pulled out my phone, and attempted to record a video via Snapchat.
Steve Jobs my phone hates me, and it crashed as soon as I finished recording. Frustrated, and not wanting to look like some loser who spends his time taking squirrel videos, I walked away, stopping a few feet from where I stood previously as my phone turned back on.
I quickly opened the app, again, hoping to snag a quick video before the squirrels
or Steve Jobs ruined my plans.
Then, out of nowhere (like Randy Orton), a big-ass hawk came swooping in, attempting to snatch up some innocent squirrels.
Thankfully, that punk-ass bird clipped a tree and flew away — full of shame, I hope. No predator gets to interrupt a mating ritual, or barbershop squirrel-tet practice, or secret squirrel fight club and leave with a clear conscience.
I also like to think that the hawk returned home to his wife and kids. Sharon, the mama-hawk, greets him.
“Hey hon’. Did you catch anything today, Jerald?”
“No, I didn’t, Sharon,” replies Jerald, the papa-hawk, shamefully.
“Well, why the hell not?” exclaims Sharon, anger rising up within her tail feathers. “You know damn well you gotta feed me and your kids.”
“I know, I know, it’s just that the squirrels … they were fast … and a tree … ,” Jerald mutters.
“I don’t care about no damn tree, Jerald! It’s been four days since you brought back anything! Four damn days, Jerald!” replies Sharon, clearly enraged at this point.
“I’m sorry,” musters Jerald. “But …”
“But nothing, Jerald!” screams Sharon, interrupting her poor-excuse-for-a-hunter-husband. “The kids and I are gone. Leaving. You hear me Jerald? GONE!”
Then, Sharon, the protective mama-hawk, grabs her precious baby-hawks, and they fly away, leaving Jerald, who can’t catch a simple squirrel in broad daylight, alone, weeping.
And that punk-ass deserved it.
… Anyway, after shaking off the initial “WTF just happened” feeling, it became clear to me that had I not moved away from where I took the first ill-fated Snapchat video, I would have been right in the trajectory of that hawk.
And that would’ve sucked. It would’ve really hurt.
I could’ve been bird food to that giant,
punk-ass predator with wings.
But, instead, Snapchat saved me from such a fate.
Snapchat saved my life.
(But not my Snap story … I’m still mad at you, Steve.)