Squirells are the bane of my mother’s existance. She hates them.
She used to yell at the ceiling whenever she could hear one scratching around. She has even been known to carry around Daddy’s 22 and make threatening gestures when she sees one.
today, we walked outside to see the newly painted deck and all of the flowers.
Mom stops. Dead in her tracks. “What. Is. That.” There is a scattering of dirt around one of her planters. There is a hole in the dirt around the planter.
there is a plant missing.
Completely gone.
A squirell took it.