“Squirrelly” by Holly Sheidenberger
I splurged on designer path lights to illuminate my front walkway.
They’re exquisite. Sculpted bronze acorns with miniature squirrels sitting on top.
They were a hundred dollars each. I bought eight.
Monday afternoon my prized squirrels were strewn across the grass. Someone had maliciously pulled them all out.
Probably one of the neighbor kids.
Tuesday at the school bus stop I grabbed Sam, the wily one with the red hair.
He agreed to spy out the culprit. For a fee of ten dollars.
Wednesday my lights were uprooted again. Hot on the trail, Sam would need another day. And another ten dollars.
Vandalized again Thursday, I interrogated Sam. “Ten more dollars,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll know for sure.”
Fed up by Friday, I asked a freckle-faced girl walking her dog if she knew who was destroying my delicate little squirrel lights.
“That’s easy,” she said. “It’s Sam. All the kids know that.”