Short Story Saturday: The Arrival of Paul

For eighteen days, I waited for a crow.

Every morning I carried my coffee to the porch, settled into my chair, and looked hopefully toward the feeder. The internet had assured me that if I put out peanuts, provided fresh water, and exercised enough patience, the crows would eventually appear. Eighteen days later, the feeder was still full, the yard was still quiet, and not a single crow had shown up to claim the feast I had so thoughtfully prepared.

That morning seemed no different than the others. I sat watching the yard, wondering if perhaps I had somehow offended the entire crow population of Georgia, when I noticed movement near the feeder.

My heart leapt.

Finally!

A visitor.

Unfortunately, it was not a crow.

It was a squirrel.

A very round squirrel.

A squirrel who appeared completely unbothered by the fact that he was helping himself to food that had very clearly been intended for someone else.

He stopped near the feeder and sat upright, staring at me as if he expected me to explain myself. We spent several seconds simply looking at one another. Then, because apparently this is the sort of thing I do, I pointed at him and said, “Hey you. You there.”

The squirrel tilted his head.

I pointed again.

Clearly, introductions were necessary.

One cannot simply have random woodland creatures appearing in the backyard without proper names. There has to be some order in the world.

The squirrel continued staring.

I continued thinking.

Then, with all the confidence of someone making an extremely important decision, I pointed dramatically and declared, “You are hereby known as… Paul!”

The squirrel blinked.

I chose to interpret that as acceptance.

No objections were raised. No paperwork was filed. No formal appeals were submitted. The matter was settled.

Paul.

For the next several minutes he happily worked his way through the peanuts while I drank my coffee and watched. Every now and then he would glance in my direction as if trying to determine whether I was trustworthy. I was trying to decide the same thing about him.

Eventually, Paul sat back on his haunches and looked out across the yard. I couldn’t help imagining what he might have been thinking.

Perhaps it was something along the lines of, Well… I suppose this is my life now.

Neither of us knew it at the time, but that simple morning would become the beginning of something much larger. There would be more squirrels, more crows, more peanuts than any reasonable backyard should consume, and eventually the rise of King Steve himself. Entire histories would be written. Alliances would form. Arguments would erupt. The birdbath would become a source of endless controversy.

But on that day, none of that existed yet.

There was only a woman on a porch, a squirrel in a backyard, and a name that would somehow stick.

And so it began.

Again.