"One squirrel," I replied, holding up a finger.
"Good," said Tillie, sipping her tea.
I'm positive Tillie went to her grave thinking that I routinely shot a squirrel before going to the office. She told Ruth that Art, Ruth's grandfather, used to shoot squirrels that robbed their feeder, too. "That was in the old days, before New Jersey got all built-up," she noted.
Ruth is putting pressure on me to get another dog. I'm resisting. Then again, I see a new generation of fat, lazy squirrels freeloading from my latest squirrel-proof feeder. They don't budge when I tap on the sliding glass door. Maybe it's time to reestablish the balance of nature.