I was just settling down to read my book when I heard Redford doing his there’s-something-I-want-that-I-can’t-get-at bark. Very different from his person-on-the-property bark (a pretty steady stream of friendly but emphatic woofs) or his other-dog-walking-by (“I’M FREAKIN OUT, MAN”). Definitely different from Violet’s let-me-in, which is a single, irritated arf. (Redford doesn’t bark to be let in. He just punches the door.)
Anyway, his there’s-something-I-want-that-I-can’t-get-at bark is very rhythmic, high-pitched bark/pause/high-pitched bark/pause/whine/whine/whine. I put my book down and went out onto the deck. He was in the yard, his attention focused on something on the other side of the fence. Now Mini-Poodle hasn’t been around in six months—I think his family moved away—but sometimes
Others, he comes over for a game of hide n’ seek.
But not that day. No Paco. Redford was barking at a spot on the ground about three feet beyond the slats. I scooted out there, and looky-loo, there was
A wee baby squirrel, most likely fallen out of his nest
Seriously, that pin oak is, like, fifty feet tall. Thank goodness he fell on a bed of leaves, rather than my gravel driveway or one of the railroad ties that boxes it in.
I don’t know how old squirrels are when their eyes open, but he was not however old that was, and he was breathing but not really moving. I bolted inside and asked Facebook what to do, naturally. People sent me links to wildlife rescue organizations, and I read all the stuff online:
- Don’t give it food or water.
- Put it in a box with towels, but leave it outside near where you found it in case the mom comes back… though she probably won’t—it wouldn’t have been climbing out of its nest if she’d been around; most likely she got et up or smooshed by a car. :(
- Bring it in at night. Make sure it’s warm.
- Yadda yadda yadda.
I didn’t have a shoebox, so I drove over to Kate’s house. She didn’t have a shoebox either, but she gave me
Back at home, I lined it with pieces of towel and went to capture the little dude. He must’ve recovered from his stunned state because he had some pep in his step.
He jumped out of the box twice; I had to tuck him in with the towel to make him stay. The only place in the house I felt comfortable keeping him was the half-bathroom, whose door I could latch, thereby reducing the likelihood of wild -game dog snacks. I set the box in the sink, put a heating pad on low on one side, and headed back to the internet to see who might have more to offer this guy than the world’s nicest squirrel apartment and probably some close calls with becoming a single-use squeaky toy.
Found some contacts, people who rescue all manner of wayward varmints. Left a message with one and spoke with another, though she just reiterated what the website told me to do and said to call her in the morning if the mother didn’t come scoop him. Then a friend texted, she had an in with a rehabber; she would pass along my number. Woot!
Feeling hopeful, I got up to check on my wee rodent. At the bathroom, I opened the door a crack, slipped inside, and shut the door firmly behind me. I gently lifted up a corner of the towel… a little higher… hm… a little more…
He wasn’t in the fucking box.
I looked around the room, which is, like, 9 square feet—he couldn’t have gone far. Not in the sink. Not behind the toilet. (Not in the toilet—I’m a lid-down gal.) Not in the open bag of dog food on the floor.
My eyes drifted to the 1 1/2-inch crack under the door. Oh fuck. Could he have crawled out? No, the dogs would’ve made a ruckus. And a grease spot on the kitchen floor.
Then I saw the 1 1/2-inch crack under the cabinet that houses the sink. I was on my hands and knees in a jiffy, temple to the floor, and there he was—scooched back underneath, shrugging and nodding. Poor baby, he must’ve fallen off the sink! I mean, only three feet, rather than the goddamn base-jump he took from the pin oak, but still—onto ceramic! :(
I had to get him out of there; it was going to be too cold on the tile all night. Not wanting to risk causing any internal bleeding, I forewent the broomstick and grabbed the fly swatter. It was good enough; it gave me sufficient leverage to sweep him forward. But every time I almost got him out in the open, he scrambled back to the back.
I seriously fly-swatter-wrestled a baby squirrel for ten minutes. That’s something I can say I’ve done with my life.
Finally, on one whisk to the fore, I managed to get him going ass-first, and his tail poked out from under the cabinet. I put my thumb on it, and the deed was done. Good thing I have more strength in my thumb than in a baby squirrel’s whole body. #crossfit #functionalfitness
I tucked him firmly back in the box with the towels but left his manger on the floor in case he decided to go on walkabout again.
Just then, my phone rang. It was the rehab guy! He said he could meet me that night, or my friend could pick the squirrel up in the morning and deliver it to him. I told him I was in his debt so whichever made his life easier. He said, “Well… I just got home from teaching a class… and I’ve got these possums to feed. Let’s do it tomorrow.”
My friend stopped by bright and early the next day, and I said goodbye to my little buddy.
And then I was sad because it occurred to me that it would be fun to train him to ride around on Redford’s neck.
I bet my mom could’ve sewn him a tiny jockey’s uniform too.
I’m keeping my eye on the pin oak for any siblings.