It was supposed to be a quiet morning.
Travis had brewed his oat milk latte with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Carlton was halfway through a crossword puzzle that asked for a six-letter word for "unexpected disaster." He wrote "Butter" and paused.
Buttermilk was on the balcony, squinting at the tree across the street. Her tail wagged slowly, rhythmically. Menacingly.
Then she saw it.
A squirrel.
Not just any squirrel — this one had nerve. It stared directly at her while holding a peanut like it was a cigar, then took a single crunch and nodded.
Buttermilk's eyes narrowed. She leapt from her throne, barrelled through the apartment, and launched herself off the couch with a war cry that sounded suspiciously like "RAWRF!"
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The Great Balcony Incident
There was a blur of fur and a surprised yelp as Buttermilk hit the balcony rail and somehow bounced back onto a decorative hammock, which slingshotted her into a pile of laundry. Travis shrieked.
"BUTTERMILK, NO PARKOUR!"
Carlton peeked outside. The squirrel was still there. Smug. Eating another peanut.
"She's gonna lose it," he whispered. "I think this is war."
"She just bounced off four surfaces and landed in your underwear drawer," Travis said, holding up a chewed sock. "I think the war has already begun."
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Operation: Barkstrike
That afternoon, Buttermilk began implementing what Carlton called "counter-rodent tactics." She started patrolling the balcony with the slow, deliberate steps of a general inspecting troops. Every five minutes, she would let out one single bark — deep, loud, and meaningful.
Across the street, the squirrel appeared unimpressed. It had now invited two other squirrels. They were sharing snacks and watching her like it was a daytime soap opera.
Carlton, naturally, documented everything and posted it to Buttermilk's Instagram with the caption:
> "Day 1 of the Barkfront. The enemy is coordinated. But so is our girl."
The post hit 200k likes within an hour. Someone in Ohio made a fan edit of Buttermilk in camo gear with the text: "She didn't choose the squirrel war. The squirrel war chose her."
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Travis's Breakdown
Three days into the siege, Travis cracked.
"I haven't slept in 36 hours," he said, slumped against the fridge. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear barking. Or worse — squirrel chittering."
"She's just protecting the apartment," Carlton said. "Like a good girl."
"She hid peanuts in my shoes."
"Oh," Carlton said. "Maybe... maybe we need to take her outside more."
"More? She gets five walks a day! That's more than I get."
"You walk yourself?"
"I used to. Before the war."
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A Visit to Dr. Nancy
In desperation, they booked an emergency session with Dr. Nancy, the dog behaviorist.
Dr. Nancy watched Buttermilk stalk a houseplant and scribbled in her notebook.
"She's exhibiting signs of high territorial anxiety mixed with elevated self-importance."
"She did accidentally lead a religion," Carlton offered.
Dr. Nancy didn't blink. "Yes. That tracks."
She recommended a "distraction protocol," including puzzle toys, calming chews, and a three-day retreat to "reset her emotional baseline."
Travis leaned over. "Should we also try that? I haven't emotionally reset since the 8th grade."
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The Retreat
They took Buttermilk to "Barkwood Grove," a tranquil dog resort in the countryside with fields, a wading pool, and a strict "no squirrels" policy.
Day 1: Buttermilk refused to participate in group yoga but sniffed every blade of grass within a two-acre radius.
Day 2: She befriended a one-eyed bulldog named Pancake and shared her peanut stash.
Day 3: She stood in the middle of a field at sunset, sighed, and then passed out with her tongue sticking out and her paw on Pancake's shoulder.
Carlton cried a little.
Travis filmed it for her followers and added soft piano music.
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The Return
When they returned home, Buttermilk strutted into the apartment like a reformed warrior-monk. She walked past the balcony, gave a single "hmph" at the squirrels — now five of them, playing cards — and chose instead to nap on her ethical throne.
Carlton whispered, "She's above it now."
Travis nodded. "She transcended."
Then she farted loudly and burrowed into a blanket.
"She's back," they said in unison.
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Meanwhile, Across the Street…
The squirrels paused their card game as one of them pointed to a new object on the balcony: a small wooden sign that read:
> "Inner Peace. Outer Bark."
They chittered.
War, perhaps, was not over. But a truce had been reached.
For now.
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