It was too late to change his mind, his eyes would not focus on anything but the precious vegetables; the ones the male human so tenderly worshiped. Peter ducked under the small barrier fence, walked through the aging turnips wilting in the sun and approached the tall, manicured tomato plants; swollen, red fruit hung rich and heavy on the vines. Peter stood at the side of the plant for a moment, admiring the sculpted handiwork of the male human. Peter then began tearing the fruit from the vine, pulling each tomato off in the most destructive way, ripping the fruit apart and throwing it's red, bleeding carcass onto the brown earth. One tomato for ever humiliation heaped upon him over the years from the male human; one for every bark and scare from the male human's wicked dog, for the constant fear, the loss, for every time he had sat trembling from a near-miss. Peter tore and ripped, slinging the vile fruit in a blind rage; the rage no longer needed the catalyst of his flawed reasoning, simply rage and fear and anger and humiliation.
At some point, perhaps for lack of eligible fruit, or forgetting exactly why he started, Peter the squirrel began to regain a bit of his sense -- sufficient composure to exit the garden, travel back up his hometree, glance down at the carnage and enter his house. Peter laid down on his cot, pulled the flannel sheets over his head and slept for a very long time.