“Permanence, perseverance and persistence in spite of all obstacles, discouragements, and impossibilities:
It is this, that in all things distinguishes the strong soul from the weak.”
(Thomas Carlyle)
Much is made of good intentions and while the best of them are, indeed, noble, it is only the diligent application of honest effort to make them manifest that counts. And so it is that my long-term care of squirrels who live here as education animals is something that goes through cycles of great activity as the problems that keep them here occasionally rears a head or, as in this little tale, unexpectedly rears a leg.
It was almost a year ago now that Cleo, a pretty, gentle female fox squirrel twice-released but unable to hack it on her own so finally become one of my “special eds”, was apparently bitten by a spider. And as these things go, my vet happened to be out of town. It didn’t appear serious at first, just a very small bare spot on her right hind leg. But the spot grew larger with each passing day and it wasn’t long before most of her leg became downright ugly. But ugly is what happens and in most respects Cleo is a healthy girl so watch and wait with daily cleanings remained the only treatment. By the end of the second week, however, she decided the whole mess had to go so she took it upon herself to start removing the itchy, necrotic tissue. In a matter of moments while I was briefly looking the other way she had her lower leg, what we’d call our shin, right down to muscle and tendon. I wasn’t exactly surprised since it is the nature of any animal to remove what they feel no longer serves and I’d been watching her like a hawk for signs of her wanting to do just this very thing, but because she’d been so good about leaving her leg alone, to find her sitting there with a bloody mouth and leg, and almost happily so, was quite unnerving.
The initial situation was precarious enough but Cleo had now put herself in real danger. We immediately began a course of antibiotics and application of the appropriate healing salve and bandages; not a mean feat when you consider a squirrel’s inherent extreme physical agility means they can wriggle out of almost anything and their inherent self-reliance means salve and bandages are a foreign concept that is treated as an enemy to be eliminated at all costs so wrapping their legs is rather like a study in the art of war. But it was an art I would have to master and a war I had to win because the alternative, which when I first started drafting this little tale had not entirely disappeared, would be the loss of Cleo’s leg. Not to mention the strong possibility of losing her life to a systemic infection.
I give her credit, though. Once she removed what was to her the root of the problem, Cleo became quite good about my taking over. It goes without saying that the eventual vet visit was not a happy experience but we needed his skill and experience to help with the dreadful situation. The result is that we moved into a sort of holding pattern; waiting for her body to reject the remaining dead skin tissue that finally extended all the way from her ankle to her groin, and waiting for her body to begin to fill in the big, gaping hole on her shin. Waiting to see just how much her little body could do before stepping in with a skin graft or some other surgical-type assist. And it began to happen, albeit excrutiatingly oh-so-slowly. But enough that two months later Cleo was beginning to feel a little too-confined, which meant she was finally feeling better. Good news and bad news since she had to be watched 24/7 to make sure she didn’t touch her leg and kept quiet so as to not cause any damage by banging it or causing the bandages to be pulled off and thereby damage the tender, healing tissue or the good skin next to it.
While it isn’t fun and the sleepless nights spent watching Cleo found my other half turning into rather a tired old bear (though, bless him, he’d not do anything differently), it wasn’t what you might call a hard time. Cleo was one of 29 infant squirrels in care the year she arrived here and as a healthy baby had never been particularly coddled or individually spoiled, and though she spent time on her own in the Great Outdoors, or maybe because of it, she’s quite content to be coddled and spoiled now. It’s always an amazement to me how a wild animal will adapt and accept its circumstances when necessary, and how in Cleo’s case she so readily takes to what I can only describe as the sharing between us as we again needfully existed in very close proximity during what became the third fight for her young life. Her small “hospital cage” carrier sat here in front of me during the day and she sometimes peered at me curiously as I worked but the reality is that her boring confinement gave her no choice but to spend most of her time sleeping the healing sleep; often belly-up with, most amusingly, both hind feet propped up on the cage wire in that most relaxed position we fondly call a “dead fox squirrel”. Always friendly enough when in her own, roomy quarters, she welcomed the respite of rubs and scratches with a quiet, graceful gratefulness, even when used to distract her from attempting to groom her bandaged leg. Unlike the normal aversion of squirrels to being outright held, Cleo didn’t put up any fuss when picked up out of her carrier to be set out for the daily work on her leg and when that work was done, she again readily allowed her small self to be picked up and put back; turning around only in the utmost faithful expectation of the forthcoming treats that are always the reward for cooperation. On those inevitably more stressful days, she would stand on the counter in front of me and look up, gauging whether or not she should attempt a leap onto me to make her escape. When I would then pick her up she clung tightly and laid her head down on my chest; the same thing she did when she sought help both times while living out on her own.
Such trust both warms and breaks my heart. But such trust is part of the reason why this little tale has a happy ending for just past 4 months to the day of the first symptom of something wrong, Cleo’s leg had healed to the point you could no longer tell where the gaping hole had been. There had been no need for further vet visits or even additional antibiotics. With great patience and scrutinous care for 3 months, almost overnight the hole finally closed; then just as quickly a month later the scabbing was replaced by proper fur. (If you aren’t squeamish, the entire saga is documented in photos here.)
Needless to say, Cleo was very, very happy to finally be released from the confines of her hospital cage and she makes her way around her large cage now with, if you look closely enough, only the slightest oddity to be seen in the fur on her leg to remind any of us of that frightening, horrible time.
