In the tree to the right of the path just past where the path intersects with the other path just below the old cemetery in Boston Common, there lived a squirrel named Betsy. Like the other squirrels that lived on the Common, Betsy was quite fat. The Common was a popular spot for people to gather, and, as the squirrels knew well, where the human people gather, there are always crumbs and scraps and the crusts of that delicious bread from Sweetgreen to be found. And so, the squirrels who lived on the Common were fat.

Betsy, though, was morbidly obese. She was only in motion for about ten minutes total per day. Each day, Betsy woke up around four pm, rolled down from the hole in the tree where she slept, crawled over to the trashcan at the intersection of the paths, feasted for several hours, and then stumbled back home. A doctor would have warned Betsy about having such an unhealthy lifestyle and would have been alarmed by her high blood pressure and hyperglycemia. But, unfortunately, Betsy had no health insurance and couldn't afford to see a doctor. Plus, anyway, she was a squirrel. Squirrels don't see doctors.

And so, unburdened by any professional medical advice, Betsy grew fatter and fatter. One day she couldn't make it back to her home. A quarter of the way up the tree, her legs refused to support her mass any longer. Betsy toppled over and lay helplessly, belly-up, on the ground below her tree. She made for an easy, delectable target; she was carried off by a hawk.

The hawk was named Steve. Steve, the hawk, was ecstatic. There was nothing he loved more than a Boston Common squirrel. They were always perfectly plump and tender.

thought Steve. It wasn't actually Steve's birthday; hawks have a tough time keeping track of the Gregorian calendar and are generally not known for their record-keeping skills. In fact, very few hawks know their birthdays. In fact, Steve was the only hawk in the Greater Boston Area who celebrated his birthday at all, and he did so once a week, with a juicy Common squirrel.

And so it was that Betsy was being carried in Steve's talons down the Charles River toward Steve's nest in Waltham. Steve's commute to the Common was quite long, especially when the MBTA needed to do track maintenance. Yes, there were plenty of Waltham rodents Steve could have enjoyed, but, after all, it was Steve's birthday (or, well, he thought it was) and he was determined to treat himself with a delicious squirrel from the Common. Plus, it should be noted, rent was cheaper outside of the city.

And so, Betsy had a long, terrifying way to go before she became dinner. She might have thought,

Betsy, however, had no such thoughts. Betsy was a squirrel and squirrels don't have such complex thoughts, or opinions on Boston suburbs, or, unrelatedly, doctors who might have recommended a life-saving diet and exercise regimen to prevent clogged arteries and becoming stuck belly-up under a tree as a hawk named Steve circled menacingly looking for his birthday dinner. Instead, Betsy had a squirrel brain and she was thinking something like this:

Steve was about halfway home now when he realized that he might not make it. Steve had played varsity in high school and so he considered himself strong, athletic, and virile. But it had been a long time since high school -- Steve couldn't really tell you how long, since, again, hawks don't have a good grasp on calendars -- but regardless, Steve was not in peak shape. He liked to tell himself that he would be going to the gym more if it weren't for the pandemic, but Steve hadn't been to the gym for a long time, even before they all closed. It was really his lack of motivation and self-discipline that had rendered him weak (and single). Well, also, to be fair, Boston Sports Club had a No Hawk policy. And so, it was mostly, though not entirely, Steve's fault that he found himself flying along the Charles holding a morbidly obese squirrel as fatigue began to set in.

He wasn't going to make it. Each flap of his wings seemed to pull him lower, not higher. Betsy was -- as any medical professional could have told her if only she had had insurance -- too fat. Steve was sinking. The river loomed larger and larger.

Steve thought.

He dropped his dinner, flew the rest of the way home, and remorsefully devoured one of those crunchy Waltham squirrels.

Steve thought. He was wrong. It was just a horrible day.

Betsy, meanwhile, was floating back to Boston. She had suffered a mild concussion upon impact with the water and was feeling a bit dazed. Squirrels, however, are not known for their cognitive abilities. So no one, even an expert squirrel doctor (of which there are tragically none!), would have noticed Betsy's diminished mental acuity. In this state, and, considering that Betsy, like most squirrels, had never had swimming lessons, it was likely that she would drown. Yet, in a twist of fate, it was her morbid obesity that saved her. Fat floats. Betsy had the approximate body density of a duck.

And so, Betsy floated along, all the way past the Mass Ave bridge, and through the dam, into the harbor, out of the harbor, and all the way down south to Plymouth. There, she was eaten by a shark. The shark, enamored with the taste of Boston Common squirrel, immediately called his real estate agent to find out what the housing market in the city looked like nowadays. His realtor, also a shark, was of no use whatsoever. Sharks make for terrible realtors.