In Which I Observe Some Shady, Furry Dealings

I walked through Oxford's Covered Market earlier today to pick up some parsnips for the pie I was making for dinner. As I was passing the grocer's stands that are right by the exit to the market, I had to do a quick double-take in the direction of something that had just scampered across the floor. A squirrel was loping into the Covered Market, making its way very purposefully to the stands next to me.

Perhaps I've been reading too many Narnia books lately, but when the little creature pattered by just feet away from my sneakers, I said out loud, "Hello--you don't belong here." (I didn't actually expect the squirrel to hear or understand me; it was more of a reflexive observation. I'm not crazy, people.) The squirrel, of course, paid no attention to me, although when I stepped forward its lazy lope became a little more earnest. It ducked behind a crate and I followed it inquisitively. The squirrel, having nowhere else to go, just sat looking at me, looking at the stands, looking at whatever happened to capture its short attention span for the moment.

"You should probably get out. Go on, shoo." I tried to gently wave it back towards the entrance. By now I was not the only person who had spotted the squirrel, and a few people were starting to stop and stare at it.

"Be careful, he'll bite," said a man standing nearby.

Of course he'll bite, I thought irritably. It's a squirrel. And it's not like I'm trying to pick it up or anything; I'm not that stupid. A moment later, though, someone else completely threw into question all assurances I'd ever held about proper human-squirrel relations, going far beyond the common-sense knowledge that one should not pick up a wild squirrel.

"Don't!" cried the owner of the stand, rushing over. We all stood back as the squirrel, alarmed by all the movement, bounded back toward the exit. "Don't scare him off! He's just here for his nut."

She was holding out an acorn. I looked at her with raised eyebrows.

"You mean he's--?"

"Tame, yes." She crouched down and tossed it to him lightly. The squirrel snatched it up in his delicate paws and took it to the threshhold to work on it, as delighted passerby pulled out cameras.

"I'd rather just give him a nut than have him climbing all over the produce," the stand owner said with a shrug, and then she went back to her groceries.

I stood still for a moment, processing what I had just heard. This squirrel had gotten accustomed to coming to the Covered Market to receive a nut. The stand owner gave him one in order to keep him off the groceries. This happened frequently enough for the stand owner to think he was "tame."

That squirrel wasn't tame. I laughed out loud when I realized: that squirrel was getting paid protection money. One nut in exchange for leaving the rest of them alone. "Give me the acorn and no vegetable gets hurt." He was a member of some furry division of the Mafia.

I was still chuckling to myself as I walked past the squirrel and his crowd of spectators, who were deceived by the cuteness and little suspected the diabolical blackmailing scheme he'd divised. (Although, to be fair, he certainly didn't look as though he had anything as complex as bribery going on between his furry little ears.) Only in Oxford.