The Porch Goblin
The squirrel on the porch should have been just another rainy morning oddity. Instead, it became a ridiculous little encounter involving heavy rain, wet concrete, one determined porch-licking squirrel, and one grown adult making questionable but unforgettable choices.
The Rainy Morning Discovery
It was one of those wet spring mornings where the sky seemed personally offended by the existence of dry land.
Rain hammered the house in waves. Thunder rolled over the neighborhood like someone dragging furniture across the heavens, and every so often lightning flashed bright enough to make the windows blink. It was the kind of morning that made responsible adults stay inside, drink coffee, and pretend the laundry would fold itself.
Unfortunately, the laundry had other plans.
During a break from work, I headed downstairs to move things along, already accepting my fate as a servant of the washing machine. As I passed the porch door, something outside caught my eye.
A squirrel.
The Mysterious Porch Flavor Patch
Not a majestic woodland creature. Not a noble beast of the trees. Just an average adult grey squirrel, soaked from the storm, standing on my porch like a tiny, damp cryptid. Its grey fur was wet and partially matted, its long grey-brown tail curled back over its body like a soggy question mark.
At first, I thought it was eating something.
Then I looked closer.
It was licking the cement.
Not casually, either. This squirrel was committed. It had its little face pressed to one very specific patch of porch floor, licking away like it had discovered the last known deposit of ancient squirrel candy. Maybe it was rainwater. Maybe some mysterious flavor had been left behind by the universe. Maybe the porch had achieved seasoning.
I had questions.
The squirrel had no answers.
I opened the door abruptly.
The squirrel reacted exactly how a normal squirrel should react when a large human suddenly appears from behind a door. It startled, scampered away, and vanished into the rain.
I shrugged it off.
Just a squirrel doing squirrel business. Weird, but not worth investigating. The world is full of mysteries. Some belong to science. Some belong to religion. Some belong to wet porch squirrels licking concrete.
The Return of the Squirrel
Later that morning, after another round of heavy rain had rolled through, I went back downstairs to check the laundry.
And there it was again.
The squirrel had returned.
Same spot. Same porch. Same intense little face pressed to the cement like it had paid for an exclusive tasting menu.
Now, this changed everything.
This was no longer a random squirrel moment. This was a pattern. A ritual. A sacred pilgrimage to the Flavor Patch.
And that is when I did what any mature, responsible adult would do.
I decided to scare the absolute stuffing out of it.
Slowly, silently, I reached for the lock.
Click.
I froze.
Surely that would get its attention.
It did not.
The squirrel kept licking.
A grin crept across my face. Not a polite grin. Not a friendly grin. The kind of grin that appears moments before a grown man makes a decision he will be proud of for all the wrong reasons.
Carefully, I began to open the inside door.
The squirrel remained completely focused. Its tiny brain was somewhere else entirely, lost in whatever forbidden porch flavor had claimed its soul. It did not see me. It did not hear me. It did not sense the storm gathering behind the glass.
I had one chance.
I took it.
The Booga Booga Incident Begins
In one explosive burst, I ripped open the inside door, flung open the storm door, launched myself onto the porch, and bellowed:
“BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA!”
The squirrel detonated.
It jumped straight into emergency mode, all four legs firing at once. It shot toward a metal post, launched itself at it, hit the slick surface, slid down like a cartoon villain losing a fight with a flagpole, and landed directly in front of me.
Then it ran.
Or rather, it attempted to run.
The porch was soaked. The floor was slick. The squirrel’s legs were moving at impossible speed, but its body was going absolutely nowhere.
It was sprinting in place.
Full speed.
Tail curled up over its back like it had engaged some kind of aerodynamic escape mode.
The tiny creature was giving everything it had. Every muscle, every instinct, every ancient squirrel survival program was screaming, “FLEE!” But the wet porch had other ideas. Its paws blurred beneath it while it remained fixed in place, a panicked grey treadmill of nature.
Naturally, I continued yelling.
“BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA!”
The squirrel ran harder.
Still nothing.
For a few glorious seconds, I stood there witnessing one of the greatest absurdities nature has ever offered: a terrified squirrel, soaking wet, tail deployed for maximum speed, running for its life while making no measurable progress whatsoever.
Then, because the universe had already abandoned all dignity, I reached down.
And scratched its furry little behind.
While it was still sprinting.
At full speed.
In place.
A Grey Blur Across the Yard
That somehow became the final insult. Or blessing. Or perhaps the traction boost it needed.
At last, its paws caught.
The squirrel launched forward like a grey bottle rocket, blasted off the porch, tore across the yard, and vanished around the side of the house. All I saw was a wet blur and the fading memory of tiny feet achieving freedom.
I stood there in the rain, laughing like an idiot.
There are moments in life that reset the soul. Moments that remind you the world is strange, ridiculous, and absolutely worth paying attention to.
This was one of them.
I walked back inside, giggling, completely certain of one thing: Nothing was going to ruin the rest of my day.
– Copyright © 2026
About This Story
This short flash fiction piece was inspired by an actual event involving a wet, confused, and extremely determined squirrel.
The original moment happened during a rainy spring morning, somewhere between a routine laundry check and one deeply questionable adult decision. What began as a squirrel calmly licking the porch floor quickly became a tiny suburban legend.
