My husband, Peter, says they are rushing the season.I’m not sure who “they” are.The Christmas Cartel, perhaps.The vast conspiracy of premature holiday merrymakers. Whoever they are, Peter does not approve. And he does have a point. There are still life-size skeletons scaling the walls of a huge brick house I walk by every day. The remains of jack-o’-lanterns are still sitting on the stoops—although the squirrels have eaten off most of their faces, making them much scarier than they were to begin with.“What are you doing?” I ask a gray squirrel, caught in the act.“What do you care?” she answers,