LIFE ON THE OTHER SIDE

Squirrels were designed to be outside, climbing trees, living off the land, romping with other squirrels. But sometimes something goes wrong. Kibbles would have had a regular squirrel life if she hadn't got washed out of her nest when she was brand new.

So my girl is a hot house squirrel and when she exited the screened porch yesterday through a hole one of the yard squirrels made in the screen, all I could think of was the night to come and of my baby in the cold--shivering and hungry--or worse, as a meal for a neighborhood cat or the hawk that haunts this area.

Kibbles had vanished into the back yard. Gone! Fall leaves and gray tree trunks camouflage a squirrel perfectly. The dappled patterns of sun and shadow play games with eyes on the lookout for any movement that might be a little animal. The day left and evening moved in--still no Kibbles. One last turn around the yard by flashlight and it was time to go to bed--way past time. That night ticked by with visions of scary things dancing in my head. Stupid to be so insane about a critter who would likely not only survive just fine with the yard squirrels but next spring produce pups to expand the population. But she isn't a yard squirrel--doesn't have yard squirrel skills or yard squirrel fear. She's my little buddy--and we're her tribe. Her instincts are all squirrel, but her nurture is all human.

My feet were cold and my eyes were puffy from not enough sleep. My heart was just where it had been since I found the hole Kibbles escaped from--in my throat--when I looked out onto the screened porch early the next morning. I'd left the back door open and the light on all night. The chairs were still covered in towels. There was dirt on the porch from the plant Kibbs had savaged the day before she went AWOL. The chickenwire I'd bought at Home Depot to secure the porch was laying where I'd dropped it. The porch was just as deserted as it had been the night before. Then the towel moved.

Didn't take but a second for the world to be right again. Feet warmed up, heart went back where it belonged, eyes sharpened right up and zeroed in on the little lump burrowing under the favorite towel where Kibbs likes to snooze. She was home-- starving and cold--but home.

Right now she's asleep in the hood of my jacket. I wonder if she's dreaming about climbing the skyscrapers out back again.

WILD?

Kibbles the "wild" squirrel

Last night a particularly bad guy got his cumuppence by lethal injection here in Virginie. He killed a bunch of people and would have killed more if he hadn't been stopped. I'd say he got what he deserved.

Here in Virginia it's illegal to have a house squirrel--a pet (not that any squirrel is a pet like a dog or a cat is a pet.) If the squirrel police came to my door and saw my little Kibbles curled up in the hood of my coat, she would be taken away and euthanized--or given to a stranger to be turned lose in the much feared great outdoors. She wouldn't even get a trial. She would just be taken away and disposed of. It wouldn't matter that she spends her days playing with her teddy bears (formerly MY teddy bears). There would be no consideration for the fact that she would have been released had she shown any proclivity towards her "wild" side. Apparently Kibbles' best interests would be determined by "the rules" without regard to the words "best" or "interests." No common sense would intervene on behalf of a gentle little squirrel who has been cared for since she was a couple of days old with HER health and well being in mind, and who is as much a part of this family as is Tyson, the family cat.

So define the term "wild." Certainly the offed murderer qualifies as a "wild" animal. But Kibbles just doesn't seem to fit into the same category.

ENEMY MINE

They aren't exactly friends--but not

enemies either

Tyson loves squirrels. The backyard squirrels are some of her favorite toys. Little buggers are too damn fast tho. When Kibbles was tiny, the box she was in smelled interesting but whatever was inside wasn't worth the time it would take Tyson to investigate it. Even when Kibbs eyes opened and she moved to the more spacious accommodations a cat carrier provided, there wasn't much feline interest. Then Kibbles got more active and took over the cage that used to be Miss Piggy's. When the old Guinea Pig died--a good year and a half after a normal pig's lifespan--the cage was washed and retired till Kibbles came along.

When Tyson joined the household she was 3 days old and the portly pig was huge compared to her three and a half ounces. Even when Tyson grew into a good size cat, Miss Piggy was always ahead in the pecking order. Now Kibbles occupies the pig palace and Tyson is just not sure what kind of a pig Kibbles is.

WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

Kibbles head peeks out of a jacket instead of a nest of leaves.

Squirrels are wild animals. Of course in the case of Kibbles--or any other squirrel who adopts a person-- you have to redefine "wild."

The actions are no different from those of her outside cousins but the context is. Her trees are people, but she races round and round them with the same mindless abandon as an outside squirrel scurrying around a tree trunk. She buries her store bought nuts, but her hiding places are under towels and sweaters rather than in the front yard. She creeps across a floor with the same caution any squirrel would use crossing a street--and if startled, heads in a direction that could have fatal consequences if a car was coming rather than my husband. She sprawls on a chair back rather than a branch and her nest is the hood of a jacket, the box she sleeps in or the crook of an arm. When Kibbles dines, she is every bit as cute as any "wild" squirrel holding a morsel in his teeny hands--except that her treats are squirrel biscuits, blueberries and kale as well as the acorns, dandilions and rose hips her relatives have for dinner. I feel a little greedy since the yard squirrels don't get to raid HER larder.

MAGIC!

All squirrels are magic you know. They fly from tree to tree. They can chew through about anything (including the buttons on my coat). They disappear--usually to reappear with something you don't want them to have. Tonight Kibbles launched herself into the sink and ended up soaking wet--which means I'm soaking wet because she scrambled onto me. She's curled up inside my jacket on her back using her mental techniques to force me to scratch her under her arm and rub her little ears.

NOT MUCH OF A SQUIRREL

This was Kibbles around a week/week and a half after she came into the family

My days ended late (12:30/1:00 am) and started early (3:00/ 3:30 am) last summer-ever since Stacey called early on a Monday morning in July—

“Ohmuhgawd! The dogs found a squirrel—a baby. I thought it was dead but it’s squirming around and I have to leave to go to Bumfuck Virginia" (she said where it was but it’s way up in the hills and Bumfuck is as good a name as any) "for work and I don’t know what to do with it and it’s all covered in dog spit and dirt and can you take care of it?”

Of course I said yes cause there’s nothing in the world cuter than a baby squirrel—only “Kibbles” was anything but cute. She was a little pink worm about the size of my thumb, naked and bruised where the doggies had tasted her (silly doggies—squirrels are NOT kibble). She was cold and hungry. We'd had a frawg-strangler storm the night before—heavy rain, wind, lightning—and the tiny squirrel got washed out of her home—or worse—the nest blew down and all the other babies were lost. She was about the homeliest thing I'd ever set eyeballs on and I was hopelessly in love. It wasn't too long (with the help of a bunch of Internet friends on The Squirrel Board) before my little girl was growing and had a coat of soft gray down coming in.

It took her awhile to accept the business end of a syringe as a surrogate Mom—after all—mama squirrels are soft and warm and their teeny tits are just right for a little squirrel. A syringe is cold and hard and the milk never comes out right. She fought hard tho and as soon as she figured out I wasn't trying to strangle her, she started eating anything that came near her little mouth. She scooted around in her box, her features became more squirrel like, she got whiskers and a tiny tuft at the end of her little tail. She got teeth! In a few weeks she was a mini-squirrel and in 36 days her beautiful black eyes opened and she started to nibble on things and explore.

The sleep deprivation of getting up several times a night to feed and make sure my baby pooped and peed is fair trade for the privilege of watching a tiny miracle grow. Blessings DO fall from trees and every now and then a tiny one drops into our hands. It's as close as anyone gets to godhood. All those Walt Disney squirrels and birdies twittering outside our window are brutalized every second of their micro-lives. The Almighty may find something sacred in watching sparrows fall but I’d just as soon see the odds skewed in favor of the sparrows every now and then--and the squirrels.

SQUIRREL!

I hear her tiny feet in the hall, "tik tik tik--tik tik tik tik"--followed by a bellowed "SQUIRREL!" I know Kibbles has found my husband at his computer and launched a squirrel assault.

I REALLY need to curb her night time wanderings. An unaccompanied squirrel can get into a lot of trouble--and I'm not really talkin about the plants I used to have--or the antique chair with chomp marks on the carved back--or the snagged window screens you notice when you look out onto the screened in porch where my darling holds court. Nor am I talking about the frequent repairs to the screen of the screened in porch--necessitated by a manic squirrel tearing around out there. I'm less concerned with the average day to day destruction than I am an assault on a power cord--or my husband, who is the epitome of patience, until squirrel nails rake his bald head or a play bite draws blood.

I proudly wear the scars of past play sessions on my hands (and a few other places that I just didn't expect--like when she charged up my pants leg). I guard my face from unexpected launches (squirrels jump from tree to tree and if you're standing in as surrogate tree, expect the unexpected). Flannel shirts and fleece jackets are draped on chairs throughout the house--squirrel gear doncha know. Squirrel poop dots most surfaces and life seems to have developed a pattern of joyous obsession with a little gray squirrel sporting a glorious fluffy tail. Oh well--there are worse things to be "nuts" about