The Squirrel She Never Caught

Twenty-two minutes of pursuit, and the scoreboard read: squirrel uncaught, Lucy deeply invested.

It began the way it always does — a flicker of movement at the far edge of the yard, there and gone before I could confirm it was anything at all. Lucy did not need confirming. She went from lying down to full sprint in under a second, crossed the lawn at a speed I can only describe as structurally concerning, and hit the fence line just as the squirrel made for the maple.

What followed was a systematic search. She worked the base of the trunk in both directions, nose to the bark, checking under the roots. She circled the tree twice. Then she lay down in the grass directly beneath it — dead grass, sun-bleached, one front paw folded under her — and stared up with the fixed, unblinking intensity of a dog who fully intends to wait this out.

The squirrel, from somewhere in the canopy, said nothing and did not move.

Backyard pursuit report

• Duration: 22 minutes
• Squirrels located: 1 (initial sighting only)
• Squirrels caught: 0
• Tree trunk inspections: exhaustive
• Time spent lying in the grass staring upward: 9 minutes
• Patience displayed by the squirrel: better than any dog’s has ever been

Eventually the yard went quiet enough that a nap became the more compelling option, and Lucy made the transition without much ceremony — mid-stare to fully asleep, same patch of grass, squirrel still unaccounted for.

She checked that tree again the next morning. Still empty. Some rivals you don’t defeat, you just keep an eye on.

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