Little Micky and The Dirty Squirrels

I am writing this under duress. 

And by duress, I mean my conscience is holding me to the task of exposing the truth. 

A murder of crows is perched on the porch railing shadowing my movements. They don’t think I realize who sent them. 

It’s pretty obvious that all of a sudden some magpies decide to show up. And to think they are the eyes and ears of this operation.  

The crime syndicate is real. 

Initially, I thought all of this was a figment of my imagination. This can’t be true. It is so far-fetched that any sane person would question its legitimacy.

Even then they would question the sanity of their mind. I wish I was making this up. I do. 

Funny, I didn’t think Micky would follow me this far north. He’s got Milwaukee pretty much sealed up, so I guess it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that he would find me.  

I was fooling myself into thinking that once Edison passed, this would be all over with. I mean this beef was between the two of them. I had nothing to do with it. 

I am innocent. Wrong place at the wrong time. Edison was my handler, not the other way around. Even then, Ed had his methods. I was just a character in the background. 

At best, I should probably start at the beginning. 

Little Micky is a squirrel. And not just any squirrel. He is the squirrel. 

Go ahead laugh. I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest. Come to think of it, I laughed too. That was until I saw the carnage. 

That is when I realized the depth of Micky and what he was capable of. 

Before the 2008 housing market crash, Milwaukee was thriving. There was so much abundance. I was working at this mom-and-pop shop right on the lake. 

 I stayed at one of those mother-in-law's cottages right off of Becher St. 

The landlord was this guy stuck in the early 80’s with long greasy black hair and a habit of smoking anything that would fit in a pipe. He was a hands-off type of landlord who didn’t much care about anything except if the rent was late.

He had this “No Pet” policy, but if you gave him a dime bag of pot from time to time, he generally looked the other way. 

Edison was only a couple of months old. He came from a rescue. They found him and his litter in an abandoned basement and by luck, he came to live with me. 

He was a playful half-breed pitbull pup with a fawn coat and white socks. He had a great disposition and was smarter than any dog I had ever met. 

In hindsight, his keen eye started all of this in the first place. He couldn’t just leave well enough alone. Which was his nature. Bite first. Ask questions later. 

Around the same time, a single mother found a home in a hole in the base of a dying oak tree that should have been cut down years before. That oak was right in my backyard. 

Now what could be said about Micky's early years is hearsay. No one knows for sure how many brothers he had. Or if Edison was responsible for the death of his family. 

Namely his mother. 

There was talk around the neighborhood, but who listens to all that gossip? 

It was the fall of 2007. September. The evenings just started getting a cold chill, but not enough that you had to close your windows. 

One night, Edison was pawing at the door to be let outside. 

I don’t remember much. Everything happened so fast. I sometimes sit up late piecing my memories together trying to make sense of it. How did everything get so out of control? 

Edison ran down the stairs. I was a few minutes behind. I was digging through the pantry drawer for a plastic bag. In case Ed had to do his business. 

I should’ve been quicker, but I wasn’t. 

By the time I got downstairs, it was chaos. At the base of the tree, three squirrels lay dead. Ed was chasing something in the dark. I couldn’t make it out. 

I tried calling him over, but my screams fell on deaf ears. He was determined. By the time I stopped him, it was already too late. 

There was a faint color of blood on his muzzle. Three squirrels were dead. A loud chirping of anguish rang out. It was bone-chilling. 

Standing in the hole of the oak tree was Little Micky. 

I did what any compassionate person would do. I used Edison’s plastic business bags, wrapped up the small dead fury bodies, and disposed of them in the trash reciprocal. 

Edison barked at the tree.

What I didn’t anticipate was that the blood of the family, Little Micky’s family, would now also be on my hands.

Those next couple of weeks, everything went back to the way it was. The oak tree was eventually cut down because a storm split it in two. Ed and I went about our lives. 

By all accounts, I thought Micky would have moved on.   

It wasn’t until mid-October that I realized our lives were forever changed. Some squirrels will get revenge at all costs. Little Micky was no exception.  

The story goes that after Little Micky’s family died at the paws of Edison, he struck out on his own and found a small hole in the pavilion at the park. 

The same park that Ed and I frequented every day. 

Here’s where things get a little muddled. 

There already was a low-level gang running the playground. The Acorns. On account of that the park was known for all the Acorn trees. Its leader was a one-legged rabbit named Scotch. 

They had their paws in everything. Berries, twigs for nests, and all the frozen peas and corn people threw at the geese. Whatever you needed, Scotch could get. 

He had the park right where he wanted it. Everyone owed Scotch something. 

Turned out, Little Micky challenged Scotch soon after he had joined the Acorns. A few days later, Scotch was found floating in the pond missing his other leg and an ear. 

Little Micky took control, and the Acorns all but disappeared. 

Ed and I were clueless. That night barely registered. Life has a funny way of moving fast.  

The following spring is when things started picking up. Word on the street was that there was a new group in the park. The Dirty Squirrels. 

No longer was it just berries and twigs. The Dirty Squirrels handled it all. Leaves, nuts, crab apples, trash, cotton tails, and more.

Even the raccoons had to clear it with them if they wanted to go dumpster diving. 

Their reach wasn’t only in the park. They ran everything south of the Milwaukee River. Edison only caught wind of this after one of the Rats from the downtown gang reached out. 

There was a turf war ragging, and the battle cry was revenge.

Around that time, I’d wake up to the garbage bin turned over. Trash everywhere. The landlord blamed it on me. He accused me of leaving the can open. 

This went on for weeks. 

One day, the phone line to the house mysteriously fell. The company who came to fix it said they had never seen anything like that. It was as if an animal chewed through the line. 

Which couldn’t have happened right? Wrong.

At night there was scratching at the windows. Chirps at all hours. Some animal sprayed its scent on the front door which drove Edison crazy. The psychological warfare had begun.

Little Micky was coming in hot.  

Pipeline, not to be confused with Pip, who is his 16th cousin on his father’s side, met us downtown behind the old Sears building where the rats normally operated out of.

He told us that the Dirty Squirrels would make our lives hell.  

The gang of rabbits in Cotton Alley off of 16th had all but folded. Even the rats were thinking of a truce between Micky and their crew. Some of the older players like the pigeons and possums have all but moved out. 

The Squirrels were coming for us, so we better be prepared. 

Edison had enough. We walked ourselves to the middle of the park that afternoon. He stood in the center of the field and barked.

He wanted a sit down with Little Micky. 

No one came out. We must’ve stood there for the better part of an hour. The both of us walked the trail around the pond.

Ed left his mark on every leaf that crossed his path. 

Nothing. 

That night was the fire. The landlord said it was the neighbors putting hot coals from the barbeque in the bin, but we knew differently. This was the work of Little Micky. 

While the firemen hosed down the side of the house, I swore I saw a small shadow with beady eyes watching us. A low growl could be heard from Edison. 

Enough was enough. What more could or would happen? It wasn’t worth it. 

Edison reached out to the robins. The only friends he had, and told them to spread the word that we were leaving the city. We would never set foot in Milwaukee again. 

We headed north, made good on our promise, and never came back. 

Edison died in his sleep in the spring of last year. And with his death, I thought the bad blood between Little Micky and the Dirty Squirrels with it. 

I was wrong. 

Two days ago, there was a severed rabbit's leg on the back deck. Crows have been camped out on either the porch or the fence. Piles of acorns are everywhere.

I have no acorn tree. 

Even the robins are keeping their distance. 

At first, I wouldn’t have put too much thought into that, but this morning it was all but confirmed. Little Micky found me. 

On my walk this morning, an aging squirrel followed me. He kept a few feet between us, but I could tell right away who it was. He is back to exact his revenge. 

I am on guard now. I removed all the garbage bins from along the house and locked all the windows. 

Eleanor, Ed’s replacement, doesn’t know about my past. And I would like to keep it that way.

A few hours ago, I reached out to some local muscle. Two alley cats. Whiskey and Seven. 

I am writing this in case something happens. There is so much more to be said about the Dirty Squirrels. Especially about Little Micky. 

And I am afraid if nobody knows the truth, then none of us are safe.   

It’s quiet now, but isn’t it always right before the storm?