Red squirrel

Non-fictional stories. A few days ago, while walking my dachshund in the park, I watched a cool picture. Someone took out four meters from the path and left a cardboard box with rags. I don’t know why and why, but the squirrel noticed the rags from this box, and so quickly began to drag, apparently, to her house. Once I ran, two ran, three ... But then a peasant with a carriage appears on the horizon, looking around with a predatory glance, evaluating what to profit from ... At this time, our toiler, grabbing another piece, rushed to the house. The man, going up to the box, examined it, but apparently decided not to gut it in a public place, but simply put it on the stroller and slowly dripped on. The squirrel returned, and did not see its box, looked around and noticed a retiring man with a stroller, on which was the same box. Emitting an incomprehensible cry, or a squeak, or something else, the squirrel rushed after the peasant, caught up, jumped onto the box, without ceasing to squeal something in its squirrel tongue. The man looked back and saw a squealing squirrel. The staring game lasted about a minute. I don’t know whether the peasant was fluent in the squirrel tongue, or he simply guessed that he had not taken his own, but, smiling, he took the box off the stroller and put it aside from the path, and went on his own business. The squirrel instantly grabbed some rag from the box and in a moment rushed away, apparently, to finish building her house.