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But another squirrel does. Maybe he senses my fear, or maybe he’s named Pete too. Either way, I’ve got his attention, and I am not excited about that.
He scurries over to my other side, following Grinchy’s lead and stopping less than a foot away from me.
“Pete…” My voice cracks.
Another squirrel looks up.
How many Petes are in this gang?
Pete Two strides slowly toward me, grinning like a madman. Or like a squirrel. I can’t see the difference anymore.
And then the squirrels have me surrounded.
I’m tempted to back away, but I don’t know if there’s another one behind me. What happens if I step on him? Will the other squirrels see it as an act of aggression? Will they attack?
“Pete,” I say again.
He blinks, losing the stare-down, and his squirrel opponent scampers merrily away to another box of mistletoe. Finally Pete looks at me.
His eyes go wide. “Don’t make any sudden moves.”
“Okay. No sudden moves,” I repeat as though I’m not frozen in place with fear.
“I’ll be right there. Just keep your eyes on me. Don’t look down.” He talks slowly and calmly while carefully making his way to me.
The night goes still, except for a few flakes of snow that swirl to the ground. The only sound is Pete’s soft steps on the snow-dusted pavement. Even the other squirrels have stopped eating, sensing, perhaps, that we’re in a stand-off.
Pete takes his time, stepping over and around boxes, avoiding the ones already claimed by the squirrel gang. And his tactics work, even if I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll die of old age before the squirrels attack.
He’s within feet of me when, in skirting around a final box, he accidentally kicks it. The scraping sound startles me, and I fumble the box in my arms. Luckily, I catch it before it hits the ground, but not before the flaps fall open and mistletoe spills out.
I throw my arm over the open flap, but it’s too late. The squirrels have been waiting for this moment. It’s feeding time.
Grinchy leads the charge, running up my pant leg, over my arms, right on top of the box. Our eyes meet. I scream and drop the box. No parasite plant is worth defending from rodents.
But Grinchy is too quick. He doesn’t care about the mistletoe anymore. It was neveraboutthe mistletoe. It’s power he wants. It’s always been power.
The box falls to the ground, but he clings to my arm, his little paws not so cute anymore as they grip my parka.
The Petes follow. They’re on my legs, then on my chest as Grinchy pulls the remaining sprigs of mistletoe out of my arms.
I scream louder, turning in circles and flailing my arms, but they will not get off.
Then Pete’s yells join my screams and heavy hands are swatting my back and hair, followed by pinpricks of little claws scampering down my legs.
I’m still screaming long after I don’t feel them anymore. In my mind, I know they’re gone, but in my heart, this is just the beginning. They’ll never truly be gone.
“Hope!” Pete yells and holds my arms down. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
The thought of blood makes me go still with fear. “I don’t know! Did they bite me? Do I have to get a rabies shot?”
Pete circles me. “No, squirrels don’t spread rabies. And you look okay. You’ve got on too many layers for them to do any real damage, but you’ve got a tear in your coat.”
My breath slows, and I pull myself together enough to look down and confirm nothing is bleeding. The only thing, besides the mistletoe, which didn’t escape the squirrel attack is the sleeve of my parka. Down filling pokes out of a small tear.
Pete guides me back to my car, talking the whole time. “You’re okay. Go home, take a nice bath, and put all of this behind you.”
“What just happened? That was too crazy to believe,” I say as he helps me into my car. “Was that a coordinated attack? Do squirrels do that? I thought they lived alone.”
