The squirrel franchise

I have recently come to the uncomfortable realization that I may have made a terrible mistake. It started innocently enough. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about an evil squirrel overlord. I thought it was funny. Apparently, the squirrel did too. Because last week, he showed up again.

At first, I dismissed it as coincidence. Squirrels are everywhere. They are small, furry creatures with an apparent inability to mind their own business. Eventually, one was bound to wander into another column. But now I’m beginning to suspect something more sinister.  The squirrel is building a literary franchise. Think about it. First, he gets his own column. Then he makes a return appearance. 

Pretty soon, he’ll want a spin-off, a book, a movie. Then, before you know it, there will be a line of squirrel merchandise at the local department store: T-shirts, coffee mugs, tiny squirrel action figures, perhaps even a collectible evil squirrel overlord with an appropriately tiny throne.

And who is going to pay for all of this? Apparently, me. I have become the squirrel’s publicist. Every time I mention him, I increase his exposure. Every time somebody reads about him, his little furry empire grows. I can see the plan now. He’s sitting somewhere in a tree, surrounded by acorns, reviewing my latest column.

“Excellent,” he says to his squirrel minions. “That human has mentioned me again.”

“Should we proceed with Phase Two, Your Evilness?”

“Of course.”

“And what is Phase Two?”

“Merchandising.”

This is how it starts, one not so harmless squirrel, then another, then suddenly there are squirrels everywhere. There will be a squirrel movie trailer. There will be a squirrel streaming series. There will be a dramatic squirrel origin story explaining how he became evil. There will be a prequel, and then a sequel. And because Hollywood has apparently run out of ideas, there will eventually be a gritty reboot called Squirrel: Origins. This is driving me nuts!

I suppose I could simply stop writing about squirrels. But that presents another problem.

What if that is exactly what the squirrel overlord wants? Perhaps he’s trying to make me believe I am in control. Perhaps he’s sitting in that tree right now, patiently waiting for me to think I’ve defeated him. Then, three weeks from now, another squirrel will somehow appear in my life. I’ll see him sitting on a fence. He’ll look at me. I’ll look at him. And somewhere, deep in the squirrel hierarchy, a tiny bell will ring. Before I know it, Phase Three has begun.”

I don’t even know what Phase Three is. And frankly, I’m afraid to find out.  But I think it’s about what happens when the squirrel franchise gets too big. Will I eventually be expected to attend squirrel conventions? Will I have to sit on a panel called “Understanding the Nutty Mind of the Evil Squirrel Overlord”? Will people line up to have me sign copies of columns I barely remember writing? Someone will inevitably ask me, “Where do you get your squirrel ideas?” and I’ll have to explain that I don’t get the ideas. The squirrels apparently deliver them at night, probably while I’m sleeping. I can picture one now, creeping through the window with a tiny briefcase full of notes. “Here’s next week’s column,” he’ll whisper. “You’ll want to mention the acorn shortage.” I’ll mumble at him from my altered dream state that I’m not writing about acorns. He’ll remind me that he knows where I live. I’ll point out that this is an unreasonable level of commitment for any kind of rodent with a fluffy tail. He’ll simply smile, pull a tiny pair of reading glasses from his briefcase and say, “We’ll discuss that in the next installment.” 

Even though he is scientifically from the order Rodentia, which includes mice, rats, beavers, chipmunks, prairie dogs, guinea pigs and even porcupines, he is obviously insulted that I group him in with rodents. You know how I know that? Because he told me so!

“I’m above rodents!” he said, “You fat, slow homo sapien!”  

Homo Sapien! Well, I never! Nobody calls me that! So, highly insulted, I have decided to establish one firm rule from this point forward: I will not write about squirrels. Absolutely not. No more squirrels. No evil squirrel overlords. No squirrel empires. No squirrel merchandise. No squirrel movies or squirrel books.

I am done. I mean it. This column will be completely squirrel-free.

Unless, of course, somebody has a really good idea for what the squirrel overlord should do next. In that case, I’m willing to listen. But only briefly — and preferably from a safe distance, because I have a funny feeling the squirrel is already writing the next chapter.

I think things are about to become Rocky! 

OH! Damn!