My father had a "pet" squirrel years ago. I'm unsure how dad came to befriend him, but George would come each morning into the kitchen (dad left the door open for him), jump onto the table or dad's shoulder and eat the peanut butter and crackers he loved so much. If mom and dad were out of town, he'd go next door and "knock" on the back door for his breakfast. Everyone around here knew him and treated him like a friend. This went on for several years until George just stopped coming around. It was a sad day but then later we thought we spotted some of his younguns, so maybe George was actually Georgia after all.