By Joan Connor

How it began: at dusk it came. It came from the forest, slinking ghostly with its planchette-shaped head, with its scare-quote eyes, its following rat’s tail. I had been tossing peanuts on the deck for the chippies, for the squirrels. It, with its star-shaped hands, apparently liked them too, cracking the shells, gobbling the legumes. At first, I was frightened. But then gradually, slowly, incrementally, as is so often in life, I became accustomed to it, him, her, them. Perhaps even fond? Soon five of them, six, appeared feedin  at dusk, sometimes later. Some nights they squabbled, squirmed for position, but their skirmishes were histrionic—a turned back, palmed peanuts. A half-hearted hiss or growl. And, yes, they played possum. They played possum while Little Dog, my terrier, sniffed or scampered before the French door.

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