Or a Synchronized Lawnmowers Routine

While mowing at an elementary school the other day, I stopped to take a picture of a fungus growing at the base of a tree.  (I then made a note to put that tree on our removals list, as any tree with a fungus like that is doomed, even if it's 95% green and leafy, as this one was.)

The squirrel on the lowest branch didn't know what to do.  "This human is large and (presumably) threatening, but that thing he was sitting on isn't roaring any more, so does that make him less or more threatening?  The branch I'm on is above his head, so I don't have to scamper further up the tree, but what if he comes after me?  He's not coming closer, but he's not going away, either, and I really need to get down the tree and use the little squirrel's room."  The poor thing was quivering with indecision and apprehension.

I felt sorry for worrying the squirrel.  As I resumed mowing, I pondered that "Worrying the Squirrel" sounds like a new dance craze.  For all I know, it could be a euphemism for masturbation.  (I've never understood "spanking the monkey" either.)  Um, it isn't, is it?