When you think of the city, you might imagine the towering skyscrapers, the beautiful city parks, the delicious food or maybe even the endless opportunities for young dreamers. The city is constantly bristling with life and energy every moment of the hour; and with the dawning of spring, a sense of romantic nostalgia has everybody in a wonderful state of euphoria. However, this excitement is blinding you from seeing an evil that is true of every city: Squirrels.

Behind every trash can, on every tree branch, underneath every earthen crevice creeps an urban dwelling rodent void of any fear of humans. Its only goal, seemingly, is to scrounge for any type of food, no matter where it is, or what it is. And what normally inhibits an animal from intruding on human activities seems to be completely missing in the psyche of the squirrel: it has no fear. I don’t want to promote squirrel hunting or any extreme measure of squirrel control, but I do want to try and persuade you to respect squirrels for what they are, a significant force in human affairs. There are qualities of squirrels that make them dangerous to the community: their fearlessness, their fast and agile bodies and their sheer mass in numbers. This trifecta of complete dominance in any other species would have been dealt with swiftly, like wolves or hyenas, but the squirrels have built for themselves an unassuming reputation, leaving us completely vulnerable.

Last summer in Loring Park, I was strolling with some close friends of mine, enjoying the beautiful Minnesotan day. It was one of those days where musicians played jazz on the street, poets mused under walnut trees and families played on the grass. I remember clearly, a small tot with half a slice of white bread, presumably to feed the ducks in the pond, wandered a little too close to a hungry squirrel. The squirrel saw her and gingerly crept up beside her. The tot enthusiastically extended her hand with the bread to the squirrel, as if she expected the squirrel to stand on its hind legs, take the piece of bread and nod its head in thanks. What actually happened was that the squirrel jumped on the girl, snatched the bread from her hand, scratching her in the process and scurried off to its hovel in Hades. The neglectful parents rushed to their crying child, inspected her hand and bandaged it with a "Toy Story" band-aid.

Not more than five minutes later, a real hipster-looking dude in aviator shades and a bag of bread comes walking in the same area as the toddler. He sees the same hit-and-run squirrel that attacked the girl and approaches with a piece of bread. I was shocked to see an adult willfully put himself in harm’s way. Why would he do this? Does he think that feeding a feral furry is a humane act? Does he think that it’s a progressive act toward a nature-friendly community? Needless to say, the squirrel jumps on the man, rips the bread from his hand and runs off, probably feeling pretty good about his profitable afternoon. The man watched the squirrel, either shocked at the squirrel's boldness or pleased with his own self-righteous acts, then he inspects his hand for the puncture wounds the squirrel most definitely left behind.

I’m not sure what lesson could be gleaned from what I saw, what moral I could learn. Two different people: an adult and a child. They were both attacked by a common creature of the urban landscape, both had good intentions to the creature and both were robbed both of their bread as well as their ease of mind, because tetanus is real.