I previously thought about what it would be like to live as a dog. Now, as I'm sitting in the backyard of Buff Loft in WeHo, a squirrel running around has me thinking about animal life again.
We've posted on Instagram how we have at least one (maybe three) different squirrels visiting us on a regular basis. Today, one particularly brazen fluff-ball with ambitions clearly beyond its tiny rodent brain returned.
I watch it, mesmerized, as it executes a daring dash across the lawn, grabbing an acorn with the precision of a seasoned jewel thief, and then, with a flick of its tail, sprints off.
Presumably, it's taking its prize "home." And that's where my existential crisis began.
Because, really, where is home for a squirrel? Is it a meticulously crafted, multi-room dwelling with bespoke nut-shelving? Or is it just… a hole? A cozy, dirt-scented crevice somewhere up a tree or under a bush? How does it even remember where this elusive domestic haven is? Does it have a tiny GPS implanted, or perhaps a highly sophisticated mental map, complete with landmarks like "that giant pine tree" and "the grumpy dog's territory"?
And what, pray tell, is in this squirrelly abode? A minimalist setup, I imagine. No designer furniture, no framed photos of its ancestors, certainly no Wi-Fi router. Maybe a small, organized (or perhaps chaotically overflowing) stockpile of acorns in one corner. A few leaves for bedding. That's about it, right? An animal, truly, has no possessions. Beyond the essentials for survival, they're free from the tyranny of "stuff." My mind immediately went to my closet, groaning under the weight of things I "might need someday." The squirrel just needs another acorn.
Oh, to be a squirrel! Imagine the sheer, unadulterated freedom. It never loses its keys – because it doesn't have any. It never worries about running late to a meeting – because its daily agenda consists solely of "forage and frolic." Traffic? Well, that might be a concern. I've seen the unfortunate aftermath of a squirrel's bad decision on the street before, and it doesn't look like a Zen experience. But beyond those fleeting, high-stakes moments, the daily commute is a breeze: a hop, a skip and a daring leap.
There are no emails to respond to. No endless, soul-crushing inbox. No passive-aggressive "per my last email" from a bird. There are no social media demands; no constant pressure to take 300 selfies every day, trying to capture its "best angle" mid-nut-burying. It just is. It explores the neighborhood, every nook and cranny, every day, without the need for a 'like' button or a 'share.'
At night, it simply retreats home. No streaming subscriptions to pay for. No endless scrolling through mediocre TV shows trying to find something, anything to watch. No late-night anxiety about the rising cost of living or whether it remembered to turn off the oven (though, given the "no oven" situation, that's rarely an issue).
So, what is a squirrel's biggest concern in a day? Maybe finding something delicious to eat before that other, slightly chubbier squirrel gets to it. Maybe escaping the stray cat that occasionally prowls the fences, its eyes narrowed with predatory intent. Otherwise? It seems like a gloriously, almost ridiculously, simple life.
Perhaps we humans are the truly "wild" ones, frantically juggling schedules, passwords and the ever-present fear of missing out, while our furry, acorn-loving neighbors are just… living. They’ve cracked the code on true minimalism, and frankly, I'm a little jealous