The Mysterious Life of Edgar Allen Squirrel

My friend Edgar Allen Squirrel dropped by yesterday. He’s a very quiet sort of individual, keeps to himself. He comes without fanfare, stays a while, then leaves as mysteriously as he arrives. I wasn’t aware of his presence until, while washing dishes, I glanced out of my kitchen window. There he was, in a patch of sunlight, eyes closed, seemingly drowsing. Only, I know Edgar Allen. He was thinking of a plot for a new mystery.

I watched, slipped my hand into a drawer for my camera, and returned to the window. I was able to get a picture of this great writer, probably the only one in existence of an author in the throes of creativity. I could tell the plot he was hatching inside that furry head was going to be spine-tingling. How could I tell? Because, every once in a while, his tail jerked or his whiskers twitched.

Finally, his bright, observant eyes popped open and he saw me watching him. As you know, great writers tend to be reclusive, easily made uncomfortable, especially if they sense they are being observed. So, with a flick of his magnificent tail, he whisked away and up the nearest tree.  Most squirrels would go about the business of raiding bird feeders or digging for half-forgotten acorns, but not Edgar Allen. He went straight into that scraggly heap of limbs and leaves he calls home and began writing. I know he did. Probably kept at it all day, stopping only for brief jaunts to the bird bath for a drink. He has imagination and dedication and, after all, aren’t those the attributes of great mystery writer? Oh, and add mysterious. Writers of mystery have to be somewhat mysterious themselves. Indeed.