We can’t have nice plants.

This is not because of drought, neglect, poor soil, or lack of sunlight. I love our plants and pay attention to them. When they struggle, I try to help.

We can’t have nice plants because we live in a small but thriving squirrel-run storage facility. At some point, without my knowledge or consent, our yard was rezoned. Not officially. The city hasn’t notified us. But the squirrels know. They behave with the quiet confidence of creatures holding permits.

They arrive at all hours, each carrying a peanut obtained from my neighbor over the fence, who, it turns out, is personally underwriting this entire operation. He buys the peanuts in bulk from Chewy. This means there is a supply chain. There is infrastructure. Somewhere, I am certain, there is a squirrel with a clipboard.

They do not eat the peanuts in our yard. They just bury them in my pots.

I have tried to accommodate them. I created what I thought was a reasonable compromise: pots filled with nothing but dirt. Blank canvases. Designated burial zones. Here, I was saying, “Here is dirt. Premium dirt. Dig here.”

They do not use these pots. Because of course they don’t. They prefer the pots with thriving plants. The ones with emotional investment.

The squirrels run the length of our fence, from the back yard to the side yard at full speed, their bodies stretched into sleek, aerodynamic lines. The fence is a squirrel Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Actually, we named it the Memorial Rocket J. Squirrel Highway.

Tena, our rescue dog, doesn’t even notice them. She has absolutely no concept of squirrels. They sprint along the fence like tiny racecars and she remains completely uninterested.

The cables for power, TV, and internet are like the off-ramps, I guess. Which explains why apparently we can’t have cable either.

We’ve had quite glitchy reception on our TV for a while now. I finally called the cable company to find the problem. After a thorough investigation that took the cable guy up into the trees to follow and check the cable line, he comes back down and states, “It’s squirrel chew.”

Oh brother! He replaced the damaged cable, but really? This has now gone from botanical vandalism to infrastructure sabotage. It’s not enough that they damage my plants, they have to ruin my plans for binge-watching Star Trek?

The truth is, I like the squirrels. I talk to them when I see them outside. “Hello, squirrels,” I say, as if we are neighbors, which I suppose we are. They stop sometimes and look at me, their faces alert and unreadable. They sit there like statues, or sploot across the deck railing, except for the waving of their tails. I just don’t like what they do to my plants.

There is something humbling about realizing you are not the dominant force in your own yard. That your role is largely decorative. That your carefully constructed plans mean nothing to a creature whose entire business model is preparation, chaos, and bulk peanut gathering.

And yet they are undeniably alive in a way that feels familiar. They prepare for the future. They gather resources. They persist. Maybe that part is universal.

Still, I would like to have nice plants.