Arise, Lazarus

“Difficult things take a long time, impossible things a little longer.”
(André A. Jackson )

Our days in these flesh bodies are numbered by design.  As they pass, we can choose to live each moment to its fullest or we can fritter them away in mindless pursuit of meaningless things, all of which we would trade for one more when on our deathbed.

Squirrels and other wildlife seem to know this instinctively.  Every day dawns anew so accordingly they go about their tasks with the righteous joy found only when acting in concert with our highest and best nature.  In the wild there is no pettiness; anger is but a momentary flash.  The morning sunshine on a cold winter’s day, an unexpected edible found while foraging, the snugness of nest or den are each embraced fully in simple celebration of the act of being.

And so it was that Suki the Magnificent moved easily through a babyhood raised with foster brothers by a human mother into the reclamation of an adult fox squirrel’s freedom.  For the next six years he ranged throughout his neighborhood territory, taking each day as it came and happily going about doing all those things done by an adult male squirrel.

When he literally walked back through our doors earlier this year, worn well beyond the latter portion of his middle-age years, it was with the same righteousness with which he’d left.  Realizing as did we that he was no longer in proper shape to survive on his own, Suki promptly settled into what I like to call furball retirement:  a soft bed in which to snooze and plenty of good food and nuts delivered regularly each day. 

Now I wonder if he knew more than we did.

Despite being a pretty good eater, as time has passed Suki has grown thin.  Until a few days ago, though, there has been no real, overt reason for concern.  But when concern came, it came suddenly and severely.  We were awakened by the sound of Suki vomiting; this continued for two hours straight and for the next 24 hours he was unable to hold down even water.  With rest and only hydration fluids, the second day he appeared as if he was starting to feel better; his small appetite did not want what he should eat, however, so his biscuit went ignored.

I had made an appointment with the vet for yesterday afternoon at the onset of Suki’s symptoms and despite his improvement had no intention of cancelling it.  Wise move; yesterday morning he did a 180° turn and, after a little vomiting, his guts did what we fondly call a meltdown.  This could be a good thing or this could be very bad thing.  Good if due to his stashing something he ate after it went bad he’s simply going through a bout of food poisoning; very bad if due to cancer or renal failure or another such deadly serious problem.  So instead of venturing off to the vet’s office out of simple curiosity, it was a trip made with great apprehension and nervousness.

Fears were relieved when Suki’s blood work showed nothing overtly wrong.  A little more relief to uncover what by smell alone had hinted at a severe intestinal infection.  My vet administered a good dose of subq fluids and we started Suki on an appropriate antibiotic but, despite the relief, the rest of the evening was almost intolerable.  Completely exhausted by the stress of the office visit, once home and put up in peace and quiet Suki simply and utterly collapsed.  Knowing quiet, warm rest is always best I tried not to be a hover-mother, but it broke my heart and I cried when Suki would let a whimper escape his normal fox squirrel stoicism.  And despite my best efforts at diving in for a swim in De Nile, a part of me couldn’t stop wondering if he was going to make it through the night.

But make it he did and while far from being out of the woods yet, the rest and medicine appear to be working and that distinctive, beloved, grizzled white muzzle raises a wee bit more eagerly each time I go in to minister to him.  I fear it will be a long, slow recovery for this late-middle-age fox squirrel but, if nothing else, Suki is demonstrating yet again he has rightly earned his nickname of Lazarus.