There’s a time and a place for a squirrel, but this time the place was my small London garden on a sunny afternoon. I spotted him through the open back door, making free with some food I’d put out for the birds. After watching him for a moment, I went upstairs for a gun. I returned a minute later, stealthily loading my Air Arms S400 as I moved. I placed the rifle on the kitchen table, quietly arranged a chair to optimise my shooting position and sat down. The squirrel, oblivious to my assassination plot, was working his way through the birds’ food with near comic nonchalance.
As I spied on him through my scope, I was reminded of a day last summer when I’d found myself in central London with time to kill. I wandered into St James’s Park and sat down on the grass. Almost immediately, a varied selection of the park’s famously tame wildlife arranged itself around me in a hopeful horseshoe, each individual doing its sad-eyed best to convince me it hadn’t eaten since Easter. The boldest of these was the squirrel who stood between my feet and stared me squarely in the face. We regarded each other steadily for a few seconds. When I failed to produce any food he began a little mime act, repeatedly bringing his empty paws up to his mouth and pretending to chew. Amazed to find myself in conversation with a squirrel, I made a shrugging gesture and said aloud: “I’ve nothing to give you.” He quickly grasped my meaning and skulked off to mug some Spanish picnickers.