The omniscience of Berkeley squirrels

Alice Langford/File

Alas, our campus’s favorite furry friends finally have their much anticipated moment in the spotlight. That’s right, elated reader, we at the Clog are giving Berkeley’s omniscient squirrels the credit and platform they deserve.

Campus’s most prevalent rodent and companion is eternally there for us. The Berkeley squirrels hear it all, see it all and eat it all. They want to be acknowledged by us, beloved and cherished, and more than anything, accepted into our worlds.

The squirrels truly are the all knowing beings of Berkeley. Who sees us hungover at our 8 a.m. classes every week? Squirrels. Who sees us crying on the phone with our mom when we get our first B-? Squirrels. Who sees Chancellor Nicholas Dirks crawl out of his underground tunnels with a devilish grin? Squirrels. It appears that our nut-loving comrades never miss a moment to experience all of our ups and downs along with us.

Yet, this leads us to ponder, what exactly does the squirrel population think about us? Are they entertained by our frivolous, self-imposed tragedies? Do they idolize us for our largeness and lack of fur and a tail?

It’s quite possible that the squirrels don’t understand our human dialect and just want to give us rabies and steal all of our food. With the acorn drought and lack of quality campus dining, perhaps squirrel behavior is simply an act of natural selection in an attempt for rodents to be the dominant species. Survival of the fittest!

Another equally feasible explanation for the closeness of the squirrel-human relationship is reincarnation. Yes, enlightened colleague, reincarnation as in the notion of your soul returning to earth in the form of another being. It is entirely conceivable that perhaps the squirrels are past versions of ourselves and, in turn, attempt to give us wisdom from our past lives or mischievously try to steal our cherished mid-afternoon snack. 

Our last and most probable theory is that, clearly, all of the squirrels serve his highness, Dirks, as his employed spies. Everything we held true is gone. Our furry friend’s warm eyes are actually hidden cameras recording our every move. Their attempts to climb on and socialize with us are actually attempts to obtain DNA samples. Every moment they collect more and more data that they relay back to their master. Why else would Dirks know to email us exactly when we forget to put our phone on silent in our CS midterm? How could he tell when to emerge from his secret lab in Wheeler?

With this in mind, we at the Clog urge you all to be on high alert with the danger that is the Berkeley rodent community.

Contact Nichole Bloom at [email protected].