(Fiction) Squirrel Babies aren’t Real
I’m here to dispel a myth: squirrel babies aren’t real. They don’t exist.
While it’s nearly common knowledge that the teeth of a rodent will grow continuously; if they don’t chew the teeth down, they will starve, and die.
Most people know this.
By the same token, the same is roughly true of squirrels, except that this particular genetic adaptation extends to their entire bodies.
Left to their own devices, and protected from that which initiates a systemic breakage into smaller, equally-sized squirrels, they will grow to vast, ice-age like proportions.
The elites don’t want you to know this, so the Internet is filthy with ridiculous misinformation which suggest that squirrels begin their lives in the same way other mammals do, which is to say they grow for a spell inside of their mother, and are eventually born.
This is preposterous.
What occurs, of course, is they fall out of trees or off telephone wires, strike the pavement, and break into equally-sized smaller versions of themselves, all of them sharing a consciousness as well as a shared visual and audio perspective reality.
Given their limited capabilities of cognition, this is greatly confusing, and they tend to run amok, in a state of deep distress and disorientation.
The more you think about it, the more this makes perfect sense.
When you see a few small squirrels running near one another, it’s helpful to remember they are actually the same squirrel, struggling to function within the realm of a shared perceptual reality.
Some people are content with consuming knowledge from books or from teachers or from school. I prefer direct observation, and I saw this happen. I witnessed the phenomena directly.
It’s interesting how these things occur, really. Oftentimes I’ll stroke my beard in a thoughtful manner, musing to myself how life really is a mystery.
I have been riding a skateboard for a long time, of course, but at some point I acquired a set of old Kryptonics, and unlike the skateboard wheels of today, they were silent. I could roll through a neighborhood like a ghost, affording me an observational perspective that’s otherwise impossible.
For instance, in the inner cities of Portland, back in the 1990’s, I’d roll through and observe all kinds of fascinating dramas, playing out in real-time, mostly invisible and moving too fast for anyone to respond or react until I was long gone.
In time, I adopted the use of a bicycle, and found that this too provides a stealthy platform upon which I am able to witness nature in an unmolested state.
That’s when it happened. I was riding through the neighborhoods, and it was late at night. Fall.
As you know, Portland’s chill humidity takes on a tangible form, coalescing into dense pockets, permeating any material, driving a deathly chill to the very depths of a bone’s marrow.
Eyes pealed for any approaching danger for which I must address in an improvisational manner, rapid saccades sampling the approaching landscape in multiple dimensions, I perceived to the left, in my peripheral, a shadow’s materialization within the top reaches of an illuminated street-light-level cloud.
As time slowed to a crawl, I turned my head to watch in horror as the shadow manifested into almost a column of darkness, taking the shape in its core something resembling a large hominid, falling in panic to the ground below.
The registration that this form was hominid from deep within my subconsciousness is something worthy of mention.
Enraptured to my genetic core, fixated upon providing assistance at any cost, I slammed on my brakes and screeched to a stop, even while I watched in terrified fascination as the mass literally broke into six equally-sized pieces. The pit of my very stomach in a knot tighter than imaginable.
Still astride, I crab-walked the bike closer, I realized they were six small squirrels, clearly debilitated on some core sensory level, because absolutely none of their movements were sensible.
I’ve since learned to recognize these movements as common among squirrels still struggling to reconcile a shared consciousness; a shared perceptual reality.
If you reach back you’ll realize many of us have seen this: a squirrel will dash in front of us, and at the last moment, will dash back, under our tires, or near to it.
This is why it’s important to teach your children to sing to the squirrels, for it helps them correlate their shared sensory state.
