Pausing outside the library with my groceries to observe a hopping bird, I am accosted by a squirrel. The little gray animal comes out from beneath a car, not with the characteristic undulations of his tribe, but plodding deliberately, one foot at a time, nose held high and expectant. All boldness and entitlement, he sets his forepaws on the slippery sides of the plastic grocery sack and gazes upwards as if with a mind to climb, should no tribute be immediately forthcoming.
No respect, I say. These rodents are way out of line. I hear myself addressing the forward beast and saying, Ertu að grínast? Ekki sjens! Only when I stomp my booted feet at him does he amble off, disappointed but unperturbed.
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