Flora & Ulysses

He should have been shocked, but he wasn’t, not really.

It was a sad fact of his existence as a squirrel that there was always someone, somewhere, who wanted him dead. In his short life, Ulysses had been stalked by cats, attacked by raccoons, and shot at with BB guns, slingshots, and a bow and arrow (granted, the arrow was made of rubber — but still, it had hurt). He had been shouted at, threatened, and poisoned. He had been flung ears over tail by the stream of water issuing from a garden hose turned to full force. Once, at the public picnic grounds, a small girl had tried to beat him to death with her enormous teddy bear. And last fall, a pickup truck had run over his tail.

Truthfully, the possibility of getting hit over the head with a shovel didn’t seem that alarming.

Life was dangerous, particularly if you were a squirrel.

In any case, he wasn’t thinking about dying. He was thinking about poetry. That is what Tootie said he had written. Poetry. He liked the word — its smallness, its density, the way it rose up at the end as if it had wings.

Poetry.

“Don’t worry,” said Flora. “You’re a superhero. This malfeasance will be stopped!”

Ulysses dug his claws into Flora’s pajamas to keep his balance on her shoulder.

“Malfeasance,” said Flora again.

Poetry, thought Ulysses.