“Mishaps are like knives that either serve us or cut us, as we grasp them by the blade or the handle.”
(James Russell Lowell)
The morning dawned grey and dreary, but it was relatively warm and mother fox squirrel headed out from her nest to make her brief morning rounds, gratefully stretching cramped limbs as she climbed head-first down the tree. Her babies stirred only briefly and promptly fell back to sleep; a pile of velvety-soft, pale tan coats and lengthening limbs ending in the most tender of feet whose tiny pads were still almost transluscent, like the smallest of fresh, rosy pearls. Prime real estate for baby squirrels in their birth nest is the bottom of the pile, and George had apparently drawn the short straw that morning for he found himself snoozing contentedly on top of his siblings.
Suddenly, the peaceful songs of birds calling to the dawn was shattered by a loud, angry buzzing. As the strange sound grew nearer, the babies’ eyes all flew open and they huddled even closer together, frozen in place in response to what could only be impending danger.
The menacing sound soon grew deafening and as the roaring buzz was joined by the cracking of wood, the whole tree which sheltered the babies vibrated. Still, they didn’t move; having never experienced such a thing they did not know what to do and without their mother to protect them, fear bound them together.
Within moments it seemed to come right down upon them; the horrible sound and its resulting vibrations invading, overpowering every sense, taking away their very breath.
On the top of the pile of baby squirrels, George screamed as in the space of a single second the blade of the chain saw ripped across his soft back. He screamed as its ugly teeth bit deeply into one of his tender little hind feet, tearing it nearly in half. He screamed as its flashing sharpness cut off the end of his still-unfluffed tail.
And in that second of bloody agony, miraculously, some might say, George’s screams were heard.
To the credit of the tree trimmers, all work in that area was immediately abandoned so that the mother squirrel might have the chance to move her babies to a better place. But little George was bleeding and knowing he needed more care than his mother could provide, one of the men carefully bundled him into a sweatshirt and calls were made to a wildlife rehabilitator who went out to pick him up.
George was transferred to me early that afternoon. It was apparent he needed more than the “couple of stitches” originally mentioned and so my vet, upon whom the squirrel gods smile with pleased benevolence, somehow managed to quite literally staple poor George back together.
He now sleeps contentedly by himself in a small container, for he is not in any shape to be put in with the other two little furballs his age that we are raising. It’s been a rough few days; not only the pain and shock of his injuries but having his whole, small world literally torn asunder and being taken from his mother and his siblings was almost more than this one little fox squirrel could bear. He still misses them; breaking my heart each time the sadness shows in his eyes at odd moments but slowly he is coming to trust that this previously-unfathomable life isn’t really so bad.
His future is uncertain. The damage done by the chain saw to muscles and nerves may or may not heal enough to allow proper mobility but George is young and was in good health so we’re going to think positive until proven wrong.
Just like little George.
