The seat tilted as his weight shifted; twisting quickly, he grabbed the dangling rope under the seat, but wasn’t quick enough. He fell. Racing up the side of the adjoining cedar tree, he turned, gathered himself, and tore down the side of the tree, leaping for the swing. Success! Tilting this way and that, he rode the swing’s arc up and back. Again the seat tilted and he slid off. Again he raced up the tree and launched himself at the swing.

    After several repetitions, I realized that this had been going on for a while. Squirrel had his method down pat. If he tried to leap onto the swing from the ground, he couldn’t do it. He’d hit the edge of the seat, it would tilt, and he’d be back on the ground. He needed the angle and impetus he got from the tree trunk. So I stood there for a good ten minutes, while the squirrel continued the game, for all the world like a small boy.

    I’ve noticed that boys tend to play with equipment the way they were designed NOT to be used: up a slide, no matter how slippery; up the chains or ropes of a swing and hang from the top; use the sand in the sandbox for ammunition rather than roadbuilding. Remembering this, I realized that it’s the season for the young squirrels to begin testing their environment.

    Because the adolescent squirrels are almost the same size as the adults, the only way you can tell them apart is to watch their movements. The young ones move twice as fast as their parents. They flick their tails and leap on one another. They dash suddenly to one side or another for no reason but the sheer joy of movement. They chase each other round and round a tree trunk, up and down with dizzying speed.

    I don’t know what the proper use of a swing is for a squirrel, but I know one thing. My squirrel was a small boy.