It flashes before my eyes. A streak of gray, a small chittering sound, and a set of wide eyes entice me. My mouth waters, soaks in anticipation. I must eat. The hunger consumes me, ravages my body. I am as ravenous as a skeleton waiting for its next indigestible meal. I lock eyes with the creature, my prey. It chomps on its acorn, daring me to bite. Oh squirrel, I must devour you!

The sumptuous squirrels on this campus are gastronomically seductive creatures. They bat their docile eyes at me as they flit past, up into colossal trees. When they reach the canopy, they stare down at me, as a deer in headlights would, a mixture of fear and curiosity reflecting in those big, black, void-like eyes. They fan their fluffy tails, dizzying me as my eyes circle to follow its trail. I know that behind that tail, that fan of modesty, their rotund acorn-filled stomachs provide my perfect meal. The ultimate sustenance lies just beneath a short-haired fur coat and a set of prickly whiskers. Oh, I am infatuated! The twitching body, the extended incisors, the miniscule paws that hold all their delicious secrets.

I imagine them at my supper. Dimly lit table, velvet curtains, the hearth burns in the background. Those loquacious squirrels and I conversate. They chatter at me, they fling their eyes around the room, they fatten themselves on the roast I prepared—such glutinous creatures. And then I declare the final course: rotisserie squirrel. Inundated by their brimful stomachs, they cannot escape. I seize them and roast them on a spit. And like a feudalist king, I eat them bit by bit, dirtying my hands without utensils, fulfilling my ultimate desires.

Alas, in actuality, I have not yet eaten them. We lock eyes and they flee as a princess back to her tower. And so in seeking a sumptuous squirrel, I, instead, am consumed.