and it’s between me and the squirrels. Last year one peach made it to ripeness and we had to split it between the three of us.  It was the best peach that has ever crossed the border of my mouth and I want more.  I’m not spending a whole summer working my backyard farm in Queens just so the squirrels can have a fruit party.  So far my method of making it clear that my fruit is not their fruit is to yell at them, glare, and let the dog out the door to jump as far as she can up the wall of the building behind us.  Just to let them know who is who and what’s what.

They continue to twitter, tatter and just generally chew whatever is in their cheeks without any obvious fear or remorse. Respect for who takes care of the peach tree means nothing to them.  I may have to put a sign up to remind them that people grill squirell in Brooklyn.