Jerry stood cautiously on a thick exposed tree root at the foot of the watchtower maple. He sat up, drumming his delicate furry fingers together, dark sparkling eyes surveying the expanse of the Millers' back yard.
His head darted about, perceiving the sounds of rustling leaves caught in the black chain link fence, the rumbling of someone dragging a garbage can up their driveway, the swooping and chattering of two blue jays landing in the adjacent maple.
Although a foresty swath meandered through Bluebird Creek where the actual creek was nestled, the rest of the neighborhood was built on what was once a farm. This meant that refuge for squirrels was scant in some places. Once home to four large trees, now two (and two four-foot high stumps), the Millers' yard was not woodsy but had other perks.
Despite the occasional ominous presence of the prowling black hunting dog, Lila, the property boasted a prolific vegetable garden, fanciful flower beds, grapevines, berry bushes, copious compost, and plenty of soft earth for hiding nuts and other precious prizes.
A few feathery snowflakes flitted in the stubborn wind. No sign of Lila. Jerry rubbed the fur on his face, smoothing his whiskers, and began to hop, gingerly, tail flowing, toward a large kidney bean shaped flower garden near the center of the yard.
He paused a moment, blinking, trying to think of exactly where he had buried the bounty. And just then he heard it--the sliding glass door slowly rolling open, Lila's nails hitting the concrete steps.
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