A swath of squirrel fur scooted outside across the bottom of my kitchen window.

What was a squirrel doing there? More to the point, how could a squirrel move smoothly at that level? There was no window sill for it to walk on. It would have to float in the air.

I leapt out of my seat and dashed to the window.

But all I saw was the top of my husband’s formerly curly hair. His barber shaved it down to bare skin about a month ago. Now it’s growing back as straight as a squirrel’s pelt. The individual hairs are darker than a squirrel’s. But the bits of bare scalp showing through make the overall impression a squirrelly gray.

“You, squirrel, you.” That’s what I thought affectionately as I recognized him. He was filling the bird feeders that hang on both sides of our kitchen window. He’d already restocked the Squirrel Palace with sunflower seeds.

Sometimes “squirrel” has a different meaning. Sometimes I use it when he shies away from something, like the timid squirrels who head back to the bushes when I walk outside with nuts. I’ll ask him, “Are you a man, or are you a squirrel?”