This is the stuff nightmares are made of

I flew to Salt Lake city earlier this year on Frontier airlines. Imagine my surprise when I opened the window to discover my companion outside the plane, a twenty foot squirrel staring me down from the end of the wing.

Squirrel on wingtip

It was terrifying.

The cold expressionless face questioning my every move. His dark inscrutable eyes boring into my soul. The scheming hands twiddling like a furry Mr. Burns.

I could barely look at him, yet I couldn’t look away. Any attempt to close the window was thwarted by the 8 year old sitting next to me, clearly under the squirrel’s control.

Squirrel on wingtip 2

It reminded me of the last verse of The Squirrel, by Edgar Allen Poe:

And the Squirrel, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the faded edge of winglet just outside my port window;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the sunlight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Squirrel on wingtip 3

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