The sun slanted through the oak tree as Max, a golden retriever with a physique like a loaf of bread, spotted the squirrel. It was perched on a branch, tail flicking like a metronome, munching a peanut. Max’s nose twitched. His hind legs tensed. Then—*zoom!*—he erupted from the backyard, legs churning, tail erect as a flagpole.
“Max! No!” I yelled, clutching my coffee like a lifeline. The squirrel paused, unimpressed, then darted up the tree. Max skidded to a halt at the trunk, paws flying, and launched himself skyward. He missed by a hair, crashing into a bush that hissed back with a thousand thorns.
The squirrel chittered. Max whined, paws buried in leaves. I dropped my coffee. It splashed onto my shoes, now resembling a modern art exhibit. “You’re a disgrace,” I said, crouching to salvage the dog. He licked my face, grass clippings cascading like confetti.
The squirrel, meanwhile, had descended to the lawn, now nibbling a discarded muffin. Max’s ears perked. He charged again—this time, a full-scale invasion. The squirrel leapt onto the fence. Max slammed into it, knocking over a potted fern that sprayed soil like a geyser.
I sat on the grass, defeated. Max lay beside me, tongue lolling, as the squirrel nibbled a biscuit on the neighbor’s porch. “You’re a menace,” I said. He barked once, proud. The squirrel blinked. Then, with a flick of its tail, it vanished into the shrubs. Max stared, heartbroken. I patted his head. “Next time, buddy. Next time.”
