If you ever want to feel like you’re living inside a nature documentary narrated by someone who’s trying not to laugh, I highly recommend inheriting a family of semi-domesticated squirrels and housing them in a backyard storage unit built entirely out of 1940s pink aluminum kitchen cabinets.
Yes.
Pink. Aluminum. Kitchen cabinets.
Apparently the original owners of my house ripped out their flamingo-hued mid-century dream kitchen sometime around the Eisenhower administration and decided, “Hey, let’s not throw these away. Let’s build a backyard shed and store rain-soaked paint cans in them for the next seventy years.” And honestly? I respect the thriftiness. But the squirrels? Oh, the squirrels respect it on a spiritual level.
Every October, right when the leaves start to fall, the squirrels arrive. It’s not so much a migration as it is a reunion tour. The whole fuzzy clan returns like college kids coming home for Thanksgiving. Except these ones never text to say they’re on their way. They don’t need to. They’ve claimed Cabinet Village as ancestral land. Cabinet Village, for those unfamiliar with my yard’s real estate holdings, is my collection of vintage kitchen cabinets now made into makeshift storage under a partial greenhouse awning that I am 80% sure is still structurally sound. Maybe 75%. Fine…65%.
But the squirrels believe it is a fivestar resort. It’s draft-free, pink, and apparently the aluminum is the exact right temperature for premium nut storage. Their great-great-great-greatgrandparents probably lived in that same “pantry suite.”
The weirdest part?
These squirrels behave like they’ve been raised by humans. I don’t mean they’re tame, no squirrel with a functioning survival instinct will ever let you get within touching distance, but they do look at me with the same expression my toddler nephew uses when he wants a snack.
They come right up to the porch, sit on the railing, and stare at me like I’m late with room service. If I’m drinking morning tea at the dinning table, they tilt their little heads and look into the window as if to say, “Oh! She’s up! Breakfast buffet opens soon, yes?”
And yet, for creatures so civilized, they cannot resist taunting my dogs.
Every morning, my dogs burst outside with the enthusiasm of discount shoppers on Black Friday.
They sprint toward Cabinet Village, certain that today—today!—they will finally catch a squirrel. And every morning, the squirrels respond like Olympic-level gymnasts who moonlight as professional comedians.
One squirrel, whom I’ve named Eleanor because she carries herself with the confidence of someone who would send back a latte for having the wrong kind of oat milk, likes to sit just above the dogs’ line of reach and flick her tail with the smuggest little swish-swish-swish you’ve ever seen. She’s basically saying, “Oh sweetie… no.”
Another squirrel that I have christened Doug, has figured out that if he drops an acorn from the top cabinet at just the right moment, it will bounce off the metal and make a clang loud enough to send the dogs into hysterics. Doug finds this hilarious. The dogs decidedly do not. Meanwhile, Eleanor watches with the same look my grandmother gets during family reunions: “Good heavens, the boys are acting up again.”
Then there’s The Colonel.
The Colonel is big, fat, and old. He has one eye, one ear, and is missing a big chunk of his tail.
The Colonel doesn’t just taunt the dogs. He taunts every living creature in his immediate vicinity. The other squirrels revere him, the dogs fear him, and my husband and I have mad respect for him. I once saw The Colonel singlehandedly fight a stray cat away from Cabinet Village and win.
The Colonel is the biggest security force I’ve ever seen at any apartment complex. If Eleanor is taunting the dogs, and The Colonel steps in, the shenanigans immediately cease.
If The Colonel gets tired of Doug and his shower of nuts on the cabinets, The Colonel chases Doug away with one look, and claims that spot atop the cabinets.
They’ve developed routines, these squirrels. Patterns. Dramatic timing. It’s almost rehearsed. Honestly, I think if I put out a tiny stage and some warm lights, they’d put on “Squirrels on Ice” every Saturday.
Sometimes I’ll be out there trying to clean the cabinets or pull out a rake, and they’ll just… hang out. Not running away. Not panicking. Just watching me. Supervising. Judging. As if to say, “We’ve noticed some safety code violations in Unit 4B, but don’t worry, we’ll handle the renovations.”
And maybe that’s what I’ve become: the humble landlord to a family of self-appointed squirrel tenants who are convinced they own the place and graciously allow me to access the lawn as long as I don’t get in their way.
Winter will fade eventually, and the squirrels will disperse for the spring, leaving Cabinet Village quiet again, at least until October, when the leaves turn and my tenants return home. And when they do, the dogs will resume their fruitless pursuit, Doug will drop his acorns, Eleanor will flick her tail, The Colonel will keep us all in line, and I’ll step out onto the porch with my coffee like the world’s least authoritative wildlife manager.
Honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Be kind to your neighbors Be kind to your pets Be kind to your neighborhood wildlife AND DON’T KISS BABIES