Trickster On The Fence

Every culture has its trickster, a clever, mischievous figure who delights in chaos and pranks, often just for a laugh. They're exceptionally bright, mischiefiously playful, and they refuse to take the world too seriously. In French folklore, it’s Reynard the fox. West African tales celebrate Anansi the spider. Native American traditions honor Coyote. In the American South, Brer Rabbit has the title. 

Here in Brunswick, the mantel is worn by Breezer, the trickster squirrel.

The morning sun had barely cleared the roofline when I spotted him atop our back fence. It wasn’t his usual casual surveillance. He was up to something. He crouched low against the weathered wood, body flattened as if to disappear, eyes locked on the neighbor’s yard with the intensity of Ms. Wonder studying her abstract photographs.

Near the fence, the neighbor’s dog, Wyatt, was methodically tracking a scent, nose pressed to the grass as he followed a zigzagging, invisible trail. Breezer held perfectly still for several minutes. Eventually, the scent trail pulled Wyatt away from the fence, his back turned to the squirrel. Instantly, Breezer darted along the fence top, closing in on the unsuspecting dog. This wasn’t his routine patrol. This was deliberate, strategic, and intentional.

When Wyatt finally turned back toward the fence, Breezer’s tail began to twitch, slowly at first, and then, rising like a flag and sweeping in clear, calculated arcs.

Wyatt spotted the motion and exploded toward the fence in a storm of high-pitched yaps, hurling himself across the yard with all the ferocity he could muster.

Breezer fidgeted and twitched, tail whipping, but he held his ground. He waited until Wyatt was leaping uselessly at the fence before he casually sprang into the nearby oak, pausing on a low branch to survey the chaos below.

It was unmistakably calculated mischief: provoke, incite, escape.

I'm not merely humanizing a squirrel. Research shows squirrels are far more intelligent than you might imagine. They possess an impressive spatial memory, remembering thousands of nut caches. If they suspect they’re watched, they fake burying food in one spot while hiding it in another.

Urban squirrels go further. Within a few generations, they’ve learned traffic patterns, mastered bird feeders, and, it seems, discovered the entertainment value of teasing neighborhood dogs.

Their communication is more than chatter. Tail positions, posture, and varied calls all carry meaning. When Mutter and Breezer talk along the fence, they’re exchanging information, not just chattering to announce themselves.

Yesterday, Ziggy discovered he could rocket through the gutter downspouts, producing a thunderous rattle that sent the crows into comic confusion. It wasn’t useful or necessary in the evolutionary sense, but he kept at it for half an hour, refining his technique, obviously pleased with the racket.

That’s not instinctual behavior; that’s planned strategy and play.

Woodrow, the red-bellied woodpecker, does the same in his way, drumming complex rhythms on the metal drainpipe. It’s not required for territory marking. Maybe he likes the sound. Maybe he’s experimenting with composition. Either way, it’s more than survival.

The animals in our yard aren’t cartoonish nut-gatherers. They’re problem-solvers and strategists, communicators and small-scale agents of chaos. They remember, learn, adapt—and they play.

Breezer knew Wyatt would chase him. He chose his position, revealed himself at just the right moment, and timed his escape perfectly. He staged the entire event.

Was he laughing on that oak branch while Wyatt barked himself hoarse? I can’t say. But I’d bet he’ll repeat the stunt tomorrow.

The sun is higher now; the morning feeding is over. The dove sisters have retreated to their leafy convent. The crows have flown off with their ill-gotten loot.

And Breezer? He’s back on the fence, crouched low, watching the neighbor’s yard with familiar intensity.

Wyatt is being let out for his afternoon constitutional.

Here we go again.