Moving day. It seems the neighbors were none too pleased about losing a fence, and a ‘professional’ had convinced them that their precious little boy was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after being “terrorized by a savage beast.” This was Cambridge after all. They naturally responded by threatening to sue our landlord. This was Cambridge after all. Our lease was up and it didn’t look like renewal would be an option so we packed our world and prepared to set out for greener pastures. To be honest, we’d about had our fill of the place. This was Cambridge after all.

The move was an exercise in barely contained chaos. A half dozen Russian immigrants literally racing each other to load the surprising volume of ‘stuff’ we’d accumulated over the years into the enormous truck parked illegally in front of the park across from our building. Naturally, it was pouring rain.

The Mrs. was taking care of the little fella and my job was to keep Wolfgang from getting underfoot.  I kept him on a short leash as the frenetic activity swirled around us. A few of the movers seemed scared of him and the last thing I wanted was nervous hands handling some of our very breakable breakables. Everything was going about as well as could be expected considering the rain and the muddy conditions in the back yard through which our belongings were being hauled out to the truck. I took Wolfgang through each room, making sure there was nothing we had failed to pack for the move. When we got to my den I noticed a pile of papers in the corner where one of my desks had been. Must have been some documents that had been hiding there for the better part of a year. I hoped they were nothing important. Wolfgang seemed to think they were important, because he strained at his leash and dragged me across the room. Literally. The slippers I was wearing were old and worn and slid smoothly across the hardwood floor. When he got to within a foot or so of the papers the pile started shaking. Now I was curious too, so I let go the leash and joined him in approaching the mysterious debris. I was reaching down as Wolfgang’s nose poked into the pile when a ratty grey tail suddenly popped up. The sharp turn at the end left no doubt: it was the squirrel.

The familiar face of the enemy emerged from the pile, a crumpled piece of paper clinging to one ear. His beady little eyes darted back and forth between us. The dog and I were both momentarily frozen by the incongruity of the situation. Now he was actually in our home? This had gone too far. I wanted to get the little rodent almost as badly as Wolfgang did.  We glanced at each other then turned and lunged into the corner as one. Unfortunately, our attack was too well synchronized and we ended up occupying the same space at the same time. Wolfgang’s head is a massive block of canine concrete and mine is not far off, so the meeting was not a pleasant one. A sharp clang echoed in the empty room. We were both stunned for an instant and the squirrel didn’t miss his opportunity to make a break for it. I felt sharp little claws in my back and by the time I’d turned around he was out of the den and moving across the living room floor. Wolfgang recovered and took off after him with me – again – bringing up the rear. The movers didn’t notice the squirrel, but they sure as hell noticed Wolfgang. One terrified worker threw himself out of the determined dog’s path and right onto a box marked “Fragile.” As I joined the pursuit I thought to myself, “There go the plates from Kyoto.” Wife and child were in the kitchen and their heads turned slowly in unison as they watched the bizarre procession race across the living room and out the back door.

The patio furniture had already been removed so the squirrel would have to take the stairs the same as us. This was our chance to use our longer strides to make up some ground. By the time they got to the top of the stairs Wolfgang was only a few feet behind the little bastard and the muddy conditions in the yard looked to give dog the advantage over squirrel. It was going to be close. Two of the movers were struggling to lug the heavy pullout sofa – wrapped in blankets against the rain – across the yard, and they were exactly perpendicular to the chase. The squirrel hopped up on the sofa and used it to springboard over the worst of the terrain and out the gate that led to the street. The workers saw the now somewhat less white Wolfgang charging at them and managed to hoist the sofa up a few feet so he had enough clearance to run under it. He bolted through the gate, now even closer to his prey. As for me, ten years ago I would have considered hurdling over the sofa as I ran through the mud to catch up with the action. Fifteen years ago I would have actually been able to do it. This day, I knew I’d have to go around. However, as I planted my right foot to change direction I remembered that I was still wearing my slippery slippers. With no friction whatsoever to call on for help, my feet went on ahead without me and I ended up on my back sliding under the sofa like some drunken cruise ship passenger failing at limbo. For a few quiet seconds I looked up at the grey sky moving past and felt the rain on my face as I surrendered to physics. When I finally ran aground on some firmer part of the yard I popped to my feet and ran to see where the chase had gotten. I got to the sidewalk and saw Wolfgang barking and pacing back and forth behind the open moving truck.

For some reason, the squirrel had decided to seek refuge in the moving truck among our things. Now he was well and truly trapped. When I got to the back of the truck I could see the glorified rat running from side to side in a futile attempt to find some other way out.  I slapped my hands down on the oversized fender and let out a long, loud mad-scientist-in-the-movies laugh. Never taking my eyes off the squirrel, I squatted down and did an Olympic-style press of the big muddy dog up and into the truck. Wolfgang was ready this time. He didn’t charge straight at the squirrel, but rather moved in on him gradually, like a boxer cutting off the ring. When he was finally backed into a corner of the truck the squirrel reared up on his hind legs, apparently ready to resort to the last option of attacking the attacker. Wolfgang’s lips rolled back to reveal a row of teeth that I have personally seen crush a ham bone in one bite. The squirrel reconsidered fight and went back to flight. He picked a direction and just ran for it. Credit where credit is due: he was fast even for a squirrel. He had almost dashed past when Wolfgang’s teeth came down on that infamous tail again. “Yes!” I cried, as if I had just seen a Brady to Moss touchdown completion. Wolfgang had his man. The squirrel let out a pathetic little squeak that was sure to be his swan song.