My husband has become obsessed with the neighborhood squirrels. Plural. It started with one, of course, which he called Tom. Tom, who turned out to be a girl, also turned out to be a gateway squirrel.

I am now routinely woken up to squeaking noises because the squirrels, who I believe strongly are plotting to take over our apartment, have figured out which room we sleep in and how to climb up to look in the window.

Tom, the biggest of the squirrels, will – I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP – come to the sliding glass door whenever she can see my husband, stand on her hind legs and press her front paws and nose to the glass.

“Why?” you ask.

Because my husband is the neighborhood peanut dealer. He hands out legumes like the fuzzy, tetanus-carrying rodents are trick-or-treating. They come. They squeak. They press their noses to the glass. He hands them a peanut.

Tom will take the peanut from my husband’s hand, which is probably very, very bad for a number of reasons. (PETA is coming for him.) But what’s bad for ME – and isn’t that the point? – is that sometimes my husband leaves the door open, and Tom COMES INSIDE.

Just a few steps inside, I admit, but when there’s a wild, man-eating animal in your house, you really don’t talk about degrees.

I had no idea this was happening for awhile. Then one morning, I came around the corner, found a wild animal on my carpet and reacted a lot like you’d expect in that situation.

“SQUIRRELLLLLLLLLL!!! WE ARE GOING TO DIE! GET THE GUN, JETHRO!”

Okay, maybe that’s how you should react when you find an alligator in your apartment. Or at least a baby hippo, which I understand are more dangerous than the childhood board game would have us believe. But I am not – NOT – in favor of this development.

Tom and I are going to have to have a talk – woman to woman. She is not going to take my man. Or my apartment.

The peanuts are negotiable.