Memory… is the diary that we all carry about with us.”
(Oscar Wilde)
Nine years ago today I found a baby squirrel. She came into my life unexpectedly, laying immediate and eternal claim to my heart, tasking me to labor with Love without a single regret on this path of selfless service. And that path has led me places and completed me in ways I could never have imagined.
I sit here this morning missing that small, sweet soul with my heart aching as much as did when she left this mundane world over a month ago, thinking about how we end up where we are most needed – if we are open to such a possibility. And thinking about how, through all the years since starting this work, each year brings a singular kind of lesson to broaden my knowledge base about these beloved acrobats of the high tree branches.
I remember the first year I took in newborns. Scary, teeny-tiny embryonic-looking bits of flesh, blood, and bone whose gram weights barely reached double digits but with the same large measure of fierce determination to live as that held by their older baby kin. And so, barring irreversible damage from exposure or lack of care, I learned they are, in many ways, the easiest to manage for they are truly “eat, potty, sleep”.
Nightmare memories are forced to go as quickly as they come when I remember “the year of the maggots”. With a few years of experience under my belt the nursery was in full swing that summer and we took in baby after baby covered with fly eggs or crawling with maggots. I’ve no idea why there was such a problem that year but, in a word, it was horrible. So many didn’t survive; a heart-rending euthanasia was called-for in one particular case, and both the man who’d found the baby and I broke down in tears. But those small lives were not in vain for there were lessons in timing, why flies hone in, and what to do to increase the odds for survival. And as things go, the following spring a medication was discovered that helps us deal with really bad cases so numerous lives have since been spared.
There have always been the cases of injured adults and releases who return home injured, but this year the cycle of head trauma seems to be repeating itself. The spring season saw sad, terminal cases, and this anniversary weekend I took in a young black-phase grey squirrel who apparently was as misjudging as the driver when crossing in front of a passing car. She struggled for two days before coming into my care; by then the swelling in her face and head had peaked and being body slammed to the pavement had her laying in pained exhaustion, unwilling to use her hind legs and struggling for consciousness from the concussion.
I wasn’t sure she would even survive the first night and am still not sure she’ll survive long-term since there’s no way to know for sure if she has overpowering internal injuries, but she’s tough and determined and, perhaps most importantly, she’s cooperative. She readily takes the various medications and supportive oral treatments, she willingly and eagerly eats all the right things she’s offered. All we can do is hope and continue to provide her with safety in which to heal.
Much harder was Donny’s return. He was in fine mettle early in the day yesterday, stopping by for a midmorning munch, then heading off on the usual squirrel rounds. I was a little surprised to see him again mid-afternoon for he’s no longer spending a whole lot of time just messing around in our yard. He looked at me as if to say he was hungry but there was more to his look than just the need for a treat. Something was wrong. And the closer I looked the more terribly wrong it appeared.
I went inside and got Donny a cherry, one of his favorite treats, and as I watched him eat it became apparent that his head was spinning. Try as he might, he was listing to one side and his eyes were twitching. He let me gently touch him, feel him, then moved away a few steps and sat back down to continue eating. I quickly got a carrier and his other weakness – a shelled Brazil nut. It didn’t take much to lead him into the carrier and he was put into the smallest pre-release pen for observation.
None too happy to find himself again behind bars, Donny climbed ’round and ’round inside the cage. He’d stop for a drink, he checked out the food dish and his old nest box, then flopped briefly on the shelf, his head moving like a sprinkler head, eyes continuing to twitch reflexively.
It was becoming more and more obvious he’d either taken a very bad fall (it does happen sometimes) or been dinged by a car and was suffering from a pretty severe concussion. He wasn’t going to be going anywhere for few days.
As evening fell I went out to check on him yet again and he was on the floor of the cage. When he realized I was outside, he began to run in a small, tight circle, stopping only when I went up to the cage and spoke to him. I had hoped that as the darkness increased he would go into his nest box for the night, but late in the evening I found him still on the floor of the cage, now just sitting rather bewilderedly in a corner, alternately staring then moving his head in that “sprinkler” manner. He started a little when he heard me approach and promptly moved towards the light shining into the cage from the big outdoor fixture nearby.
My heart broke. I retrieved the carrier, got a big, soft blanket, and took them into the cage. Donny hadn’t moved. He didn’t move when I gently scooped him up and slowly put him into the carrier. Once inside the house, he made a cursory, head-still-spinning check of his situation and promptly tucked himself inside the blanket. He took the pain medication willingly, then laid back down with a seemingly satisfied sigh and closed his eyes.
To be honest, we weren’t sure he was going to make it through the night but when I arose early to feed the baby we took in last weekend, I found Donny stretched out as comfortably as circumstances would permit and grateful to see me.
So now we play the waiting game. Just like we did 9 years ago, when I found a sick little baby squirrel.
The difference is that now I am far more consciously on the lookout for the lessons I know are inherent here.
