There’s a special kind of confusion that comes when your brain is still waking up and you discover a squirrel sitting on your coffee table. You recognize the squirrel. You recognize the coffee table. You just can’t account for the relationship.

For a moment, my thoughts piled up faster than I could sort them. How did he get in? How long had he been there? Was there something I was supposed to do besides stand there looking underqualified to manage my own living room?

While my brain considered the situation, my mouth took charge.

“Mr. Squirrel, you don’t belong in here.”

Apparently, that was my response to an intruder: a courtesy title and a gentle reminder about appropriate accommodations. No shouting, no grand defensive maneuver. Just a polite suggestion that he reconsider his location.

He gave a little full-body twitch, turned, and headed out through the open patio door. He looked like a guest who had wandered into the wrong conference room and decided to leave before anyone handed him an agenda. That also answered the question of how he’d gotten in.

I was left looking at the coffee table, which had returned to its usual squirrel-free condition. The whole encounter had lasted only moments. I’d somehow negotiated it without being fully awake.

I still don’t know why I called him “Mr. Squirrel.” We hadn’t been introduced. But if you’re going to evict someone before coffee, there’s no reason to be rude.