Animal Farm

Seriously?  Stepping out to feed the hummers and do a morning walkabout, a grey squirrel high up in one of the young oaks in the backyard started yelling, "Chuck, Chuck, Chuck!"  I told him to pipe down and explained that I had every right to be there.  That's when I saw the second grey squirrel right there, lying flat out on the railing like a bikini babe at the beach.  This one held his ground as I approached, but reluctantly got up to leave.  Changing his mind, he turned around and came back at me, stamping his forefeet in that tom-tom dance that squirrels do when they're irritated.  I'm a grown woman and I refuse to be intimidated by a five-inch tall squirrel.

Two five-inch squirrels were waiting in the oak, sitting on the bird feeder and chittering at me to hurry up.  Eye to eye and only a foot away, these bold boogers were giving me what-for in no uncertain terms.  Turkeys were lurking behind the tree, waiting for the outcome and hoping for their breakfast, too.

Squint had gathered a squad down in the barn.  They took turns raiding the mice's grain pile, each getting a few squirts with each mouthful.  Maybe they've decided that a milk shower was the price for breakfast, or else they've developed a taste for milk on their cereal.

George Orwell's "Animal Farm" or John Belushi's "Animal House;" take your pick.  I'm outnumbered here and the animals are taking over.