Giving the Greedy Squirrels in Boston Common Body Dysmorphia

By Paige Schwartz |Photo by Maddie Lam

Hi, I'm a squirrel in Boston Common.

I like to eat nuts and climb trees and scamper around wildly.

Life is good.

One day while running around I spot something new. I hear passersby call it a “hot pretzel.” It’s all on the ground. Waiting for me. 

I dig my claws into its soft, bready flesh. I stuff as much of it into my cheeks as I can, savoring every last morsel. Pretzels. They’re my new reason to live. 

I carry on with my squirrely life, eating every piece of stray pretzel I can find. My squirrel wife comments that I’m putting on a few extra pounds. Women, amiright? 

Then one day a young boy trips and drops something even better: long, yellow sticks. French fries, they’re called. I slobber over each one, relishing the slick grease and salty, earthy potato flavor on my tongue. It’s everything.

As the days go on, I find more and more new foods on the ground. A melted ice cream cone here, a whole bag of candied peanuts there. The common is my buffet and I am its humble slave!

But it’s getting awfully hard to scamper to my squirrely nest atop the trees. My squirrel kids are treating me differently. My squirrel wife won’t even touch me anymore. I stare at my reflection in the artificial pond. I don’t even recognize myself.

The next day, while scouring the park for my next hit of junk food, I hear a sour voice coming down the path.

“Gawd DAMN! That one is fucking OBESE!!!!” 

I glance around. Who’s this annoying park-goer talking to?

“Holy shit, what a greedy little bastard. Wait, lemme take a picture of him really quick.”

I turn behind me to see a loud, annoying person sticking her phone camera in my face. But. That must mean. That she. Is talking about me????? Obese???? Greedy??? Just who the hell does she think she is???

I brace my hind legs, ready to pounce, but I wobble and topple from the sheer weight of myself.  It sends the girl into hysterics.

“His fat-ass could NEVER be Alvin! Ana and Mia are on the phone and they are DESPERATE to talk to you, you fat stupid stinky greedy squirrel!”

Oh. That’s. That’s gore. That’s gore of my comfort character. How dare she. All I can do is sit and be made fun of. 

I sit there, cheeks stuffed with shame instead of pretzels. The girl walks off, still giggling, leaving me to stew in the grease of my own despair.

That night, I returned to my nest. My squirrel wife eyes me with pity. My squirrel kids whisper, “Daddy can’t even climb anymore.” I curl up on my back because my stomach won’t let me sleep any other way.

Something has to change.

The next morning, I wake up determined. I ignore the half-eaten hot dog on the ground. I sniff, but I don’t bite. I walk right past a soft-serve cone melting into the pavement. I even resist the urge to dive into a trash bag that smells like fried chicken.

Instead, I find a fresh acorn. Just one. Crunchy. Nutty. Pure. For the first time in weeks, I taste… clarity.