When you arrive at your campsite and are greeted by this kind of critter, you know you are in trouble.

Firstly, because you realize that their cuteness will constantly pull on your heartstrings, tempting you to give in to their incessant begging for food, despite your conviction that it’s bad for wildlife to feed wildlife.

Secondly, because you know that even if you manage to resist their silent entreaties—a big if—they will find a way to relieve you of food. Generations of ground squirrels have perfected it, and passed on the myriad ways to their offspring in their DNA.

If not enough crumbs fall on the ground to satisfy their appetite, they will try other approaches.

First, they will gaze deeply into your eyes. If you don’t respond, they stand on their hind quarters with paws folded as if in supplication. Next, they sit on your foot to remind you of their presence. If you still don’t react, they might leap on your camp chair (even if you are occupying it), or your picnic bench, or your picnic table. They will sniff at every object there displayed, nibble through any plastic bag in no time at all, or drink from your mug the moment you leave it unattended.

Nothing is safe from them—neither your grub, nor your heart. Any aggravation you might feel is more than made up for by their boundless curiosity, amusing antics, and indubitable appeal.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.