Well, well, well, if it isn't my old nemesis, Stanley Park! So, my old friend, we finally meet again.
Back when I was a young naturalist, green, wet behind the ears, immature and stupid, I thought I would take a group of folks from eastern Massachusetts out to Stanley Park to see the black squirrels. It seemed like a slam dunk, and something fun to do. The park opened in 1950, and at that time the designers thought it would be cool to have a signature creature. They went out to Michigan and found some black squirrels (really just gray squirrels with excessive pigmentation) and brought them home. The park became famous for them.
So I gathered up the gang, brought them two hours west and...nothing.
Seven years later, I returned, on this day, to exact my revenge on the little bastards. I was all set. I was going to take the first one that I saw, load up my slingshot with Cocoa Puffs and...wait, there was one. And there went another one. And I could see another one over there. And there was one more behind a tree.
I was surrounded. Black squirrels everywhere I looked. And maybe it was just me being paranoid, but I swear they were looking at me. Plotting against me, as if they knew what was going on in my mind.
I turned and headed for the hills.