The Squirrel That Stole My Lunch



Subham Rai

 
© Copyright 2025 by Subham Rai



 Photo by Charles James Sharp at Wikimedia Commons.
Photo by Charles James Sharp at Wikimedia Commons.

October 2024 had me battered, a husk clawing for air after a grueling year. Work was a merciless churn—emails piling up like unpaid bills, a boss who’d shred my reports for sport, and an emotional drift that left me unmoored, staring at walls when the laptop finally dimmed.

I was drowning, but I’d always been too stubborn to sink completely. Emily, my sister, knew it. She’d seen me bounce back before—once, when we were kids at Jefferson Park, I’d tripped chasing a ball and split my knee open on a rock.

She’d knelt beside me, pressing her jacket to the blood, whispering, “You’re tougher than this,” even as her own eyes welled up. Now, at 32, she was pulling me out again. “Picnic,” she said, voice firm, lugging a cooler to that same Ohio park where the leaves flared gold and crimson, the air thick with damp earth and resolve.

I followed, desperate for relief, hoping the old green sprawl could steady me.We staked out a spot under an oak, its acorns tapping the ground like a quiet pulse, and unfurled a blanket worn thin at the edges.

She’d packed turkey sandwiches—soft bread, meaty slabs, mustard with a bite—plus chips that crunched too loud and coffee steaming in a scratched thermos. The park was still, a refuge from the chaos I’d dragged along, and Emily nudged me with a grin, teasing about my knack for burning toast.

I laughed, a fragile crack in my armor, crumbs dusting my lap, when the thief struck. A gray squirrel bolted from the grass, all nerve and no hesitation, and lunged onto our blanket.

It snatched my sandwich—mustard smearing its whiskers—and tore off, paws clutching its prize like a bandit mid-heist. I didn’t plan to chase a thief that day, but there I was, running after a squirrel with mustard on its whiskers, hollering as Emily’s laughter erupted behind me, sharp and free.

My sneakers chewed the wet dirt, leaves snapping underfoot, and the cold air stung my lungs as I charged, fury and thrill surging. “Sarah, you’re nuts!” she yelled, but I was already gone, chasing more than lunch—chasing the fight I’d buried, the spark I’d lost.

I was off the blanket in a heartbeat, chasing that gray squirrel like my life depended on it. My sandwich—mustard streaking its whiskers—flapped in its jaws as it streaked across Jefferson Park, a wild blur against the gold and crimson leaves.

My sneakers slammed the damp earth, kicking up dirt and brittle shards of fall, and my breath rasped in the crisp air, sharp with pine and defiance. Emily’s laughter chased me, a high, helpless peal that bounced off the oaks, but I barely heard her—I was locked on that thief, its bushy tail a taunt whipping through the grass.

It dodged like I’d dodged burnout all year, weaving past roots and rocks with a boldness that didn’t break, and I thought, This thing’s tougher than me. I wasn’t laughing yet; I was mad—mad at the squirrel, mad at the year, mad at how much I cared about a stupid sandwich.

The park blurred as I ran, a mess of green and brown, my jeans snagging on thorns as I plunged after it. It was fast, too fast, darting left, then right, like it knew the terrain by heart.

I didn’t—my foot caught a dip, and I stumbled, arms flailing, cursing under my breath. “Get back here!” I yelled, voice cracking, and that’s when Emily caught up, jogging a few steps behind.

“Sarah, you’ll twist an ankle!” she called, half-teasing, half-worried, her tone tugging at something tender. She’d been on edge lately too—her breakup still raw, her jokes a mask—and I saw it in her quick glance, the way she hovered like she’d catch me if I fell.

I waved her off, panting, and kept going. The squirrel hit a maple, its trunk gnarled and peeling, and shot straight up, claws digging in like tiny anchors.

I skidded to a stop, chest heaving, and glared up at it. There it was, perched on a branch ten feet high, my sandwich still in its grip.

It didn’t flinch—just stared down, black eyes glinting, and tore into the bread. Crumbs sprinkled the air, a slow-motion taunt, and I stood there, hands on my hips, sweat beading on my neck.

The mustard smeared its face like a war stripe, and it chewed with this calm, kingly air, turkey shredding under its teeth. It dodged like I dodged, fought like I fought, but it wasn’t breaking—not under my glare, not under the weight of anything.
I snorted, a grudging half-laugh, because it was ridiculous—me versus this scrappy little survivor, locked in a standoff over lunch.Emily stepped beside me, catching her breath, her ponytail swinging.

“You’re insane,” she said, smirking, but her eyes flicked to my legs, checking for damage. “It’s winning, you know.” I nodded, still staring up.

The squirrel’s gaze held mine, unblinking, and I felt small, pinned by its nerve. “Yeah, well, it earned it,” I muttered, fishing my phone from my pocket.

I snapped a shot—there it was, mid-bite, mustard glowing against its fur, framed by the tree’s red leaves. “Evidence,” I said, showing Emily, and she chuckled, softer now. “You and your trophies.”

The chase wasn’t over yet, though. I circled the trunk, testing the bark with my fingers, half-tempted to climb. It was rough, cold, and I’d never been good at trees—not since that fall when Emily patched me up.

The squirrel didn’t care—it ripped into the meat, then the crust, chewing like it owned the park. I stepped back, hands up. “Fine, keep it,” I said, loud enough for it to hear, and it flicked an ear, unbothered.

Then, with a twitch of its tail, it turned and scampered higher, vanishing into the branches with the last shred of my sandwich. I stood there, winded, the ground soft beneath me, and watched the empty spot it left.

Emily nudged me, her shoulder warm against mine. “You’re a mess,” she said, but her voice was gentle, steadying. The air settled, leaves rustling, and I felt the fight drain out of me—not defeat, but something sharper, something alive.

That squirrel had won, sure, but it’d dragged me back into the ring.

I trudged back to the blanket, legs shaky, my breath a ragged fog in the October chill. Emily was sprawled out, still giggling, her eyes bright with tears of mirth.

“You’re a lunatic,” she said, tossing me half her sandwich—turkey, no mustard this time. I collapsed beside her, the damp grass seeping through my jeans, and took a bite, the bread soft against my teeth.

We laughed then, a shared, reckless burst that echoed off the oaks, and it hit me: I hadn’t felt this loose in months. The squirrel was gone, but its nerve lingered—those mustard-streaked whiskers, that unblinking stare.

It’d taken my lunch and left me something sharper: a jolt, a crack in the wall I’d built around myself. I didn’t say it out loud, but I felt it—one clean snap of letting go, like shedding a skin I’d outgrown.

That night, sprawled on my couch, I couldn’t shake it. The laptop sat dark for once—no emails, no deadlines clawing at me.

I’d been burying myself like that squirrel buried acorns, hoarding stress for no payoff, and it was killing me. I googled gray squirrels instead—scrappy little survivors, stashing just enough to get by, thriving where others faltered.

That one hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t second-guessed; it saw, it took, it moved on. I’d been the opposite—clinging to every late-night shift, every biting critique from my boss, as if letting go meant losing.

But that chase, that ridiculous standoff—it flipped a switch. I shut the laptop, grabbed a sketchpad I hadn’t touched in years, and started drawing: the squirrel, mid-heist, mustard glowing on its face.

The pencil felt good, alive, and I thought, This is what it meant—focus on what fuels you, ditch the rest.

Winter crept in, and the shift grew roots. By December, I was calling Emily weekly, her voice a lifeline through the gray slush.

She’d tease me about the squirrel—“Your nemesis still out there?”—and I’d laugh, sketching her next to it in my pad. By February, I was saying no to extra shifts, watching my boss’s frown deepen but feeling lighter each time.

The squirrel had pared its life to essentials; I started doing the same. I’d been fighting burnout with more work, like punching a wall to fix a bruise, but now I saw it—resilience wasn’t grinding harder, it was choosing smarter.
I’d sit by my window, coffee in hand, watching squirrels dart across the snow, and nod. They didn’t waste energy on guilt or overthinking; they just kept going.

One evening, over takeout at her place, Emily got quiet. The picnic came up—her idea, her push—and I pressed her, curious.

She stared at her plate, then said, “It was my lifeline too, Sarah. After Dan left, I was a mess—didn’t want you to know.” Her breakup had hit weeks before, a silent wrecking ball, and she’d hidden it behind those jokes, that cooler, that day.

I reached for her hand, stunned. “You didn’t have to,” I said, and she shrugged, eyes damp. “Neither did you.”

We sat there, two survivors bonding over mustard and theft, and I saw us clearer—her patching my knee as kids, me chasing a squirrel while she chased her own quiet fight. We’d both been clawing through, and that park had caught us.

The months stacked up, and the lesson stuck. I wasn’t sketching just squirrels now—trees, faces, scraps of life I’d ignored.

Work still gnawed, but I left it at five, walked home through the cold, and breathed easier. The ache in my shoulders faded, not gone but bearable, and I’d catch myself grinning at nothing—picturing that bushy tail vanishing up the tree.

It wasn’t about winning the chase; it was about running it, laughing it off, letting the small stuff scamper away. Emily noticed too—over coffee one gray morning, she said, “You’re different. Steadier.”

I nodded, tracing the mug’s rim. “So are you.” That squirrel hadn’t just stolen my lunch—it’d stripped away the clutter, left me room to grow. I kept that photo, a pixelated relic of the day I started fighting smarter, and every line I sketched felt like proof.

Spring 2025 brought me back to Jefferson Park, the air warm and green, leaves unfurling where they’d once blazed red. I walked alone, no picnic, just a water bottle and my phone, that squirrel photo still a quiet glow in my favorites.

Emily was at work, but I didn’t need her there to feel the echo of that October day. The oak stood firm, acorns gone, and I sat beneath it, the grass soft under my palms.

I’d changed since that chase—not in grand leaps, but in steady cuts. I’d pared my life down, like that squirrel pared its stash, keeping what fueled me—sketching, breathing, saying no.

Overcommitting was done; I’d quit piling my plate with guilt and extra hours, letting the small stuff scamper off.

The timeline told the story. October’s chaos had faded by December, those weekly calls with Emily stitching me back.

February saw me push back at work—fewer shifts, more space—and March found me sketching daily, a habit born that fall when I’d dusted off my pad.

The ache in my shoulders was a whisper now, not a shout, and I walked lighter, eyes up instead of down. That squirrel hadn’t just stolen a sandwich; it’d shown me resilience wasn’t grinding through—it was picking your fights, holding what mattered.

I’d watched it dodge and climb, and I’d learned to dodge too—dodging burnout, dodging the trap of doing too much.

Emily saw it too. Over coffee last week, she’d squinted at me, mug steaming between us. “You’re steadier now,” she said, and I grinned.

“I see it in you too.” Her breakup scars were healing, her laugh less forced, and I knew that picnic had steadied us both—two survivors mirroring each other.

The park hummed around me, birds darting, a breeze rustling the maple where that standoff went down. I didn’t need to see that squirrel again; its lesson was etched in me, in every line I drew, every no I spoke.

I stood, brushing dirt off my jeans, and glanced at the tree one last time. The legacy was simple, sharp—I’d tell Clara someday, my niece with her wild curls, how a squirrel taught me to fight smarter, not harder.

That was enough. I walked out, the park alive behind me, carrying that small, fierce truth.


Subham Rai lives in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, where he finds inspiration in everyday moments. This is his first submission to The Preservation Foundation.  This true, unpublished story recounts my encounter with a wild gray squirrel in Jefferson Park, Ohio, in October 2024. 


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