Yesterday, our pleasant Father's Day outing in the park was interrupted by a shrill screeching from above. It was a squirrel. It had crawled out onto an overhead branch and was fervently (furiously?) gesticulating at us. Was it angry? Were we encroaching on its nut-horde? Had it been kidnapped by a villainous gang of rogue squirrels? Was it wishing me a happy Father's Day?
None of the above. It then stretched itself out along the branch and began rhythmically jutting its pelvis up and down in regular staccato intervals, accompanying each jut with its strange cry—"qweaah!... qweaah!... qweaah!..."
Oh. Should we be flattered?