And when my heart was shattered
And in pieces on the ground,
I thought my world had ended;
You didn’t hear a sound.”
(Mary Jeans Terrell)

I sit here with a heavy, aching heart; crying tears for another sweet, furry soul who was forced to take his leave of this world far, far too soon.  One small life ended by a deadly blow from a speeding vehicle; one beautiful body left laying shattered and still in the cold, wet street.  Somewhere, maybe and more probably right in my own neighborhood, there is a person who continues to move through their day utterly clueless to the pain and suffering their thoughtless actions have caused; focused only on their own little self-centered world of wants and needs.

Perry came here perhaps a day after his birth; his luck having him fall from the tree while in seach of his mother late enough in the evening that his cries carried though the darkness to ears that heard with a kind heart and so went out with a flashlight to look for the source of the crying until he was found.  His babyhood, indeed his whole time here with us as he grew up, was unremarkable in the remarkable way a fox squirrel enjoys its life when provided what it needs to grow up healthy and strong.  Always a bit of a clown, Perry was a patient brother to three foster sisters and after their release he took up residence in the rafters of our shed and the nest boxes in the trees, living there for well over his first year of freedom.  And being so close he was, of course, a fixture at the feeder and would toodle up to greet us happily, accepting all handouts graciously.  Only once was he ever obnoxious; one day he decided that Bob’s shoelace would be a good addition to his nest so he spend a good ten or fifteen minutes tugging at it in a vain attempt to free it for his taking.

During this fall’s shuffle, that frantic period when squirrels look to claim a sturdy, secure long-winter nesting site, Perry finally moved away and only occasionally did we spot him in the yard.  It was a little sad but he remained in good weight and condition; his only real mishap was breaking what we would call our ring finger on his right front paw.  It healed but he never regained control over it so when he sat to eat it always stuck out; making an easy and obvious way to identify him.

It was that same broken toe that told me the lifeless body brought in from the street was our precious once-charge and friend.  Perry had apparently been heading home to his nest but instead ended up coming home in a body bag.

There is small comfort in the fact that he was able to experience the freedom found in living wild, no matter how short or long that time might be.  To be given a second chance to fulfill the destiny of his nature is the gift for which wildlife rehabilitators strive.  But this is countered by an ending that cannot be seen in any way as righteous or even fair; no wild animal deserves to have its life snuffed out with such selfish mindlessness.

And so it is my tears continue to fall.  And so it is that as hard as it is for me to write about this kind of thing, I believe that every life counts – whether we are aware of them or not.  And I believe that no life should go unacknowledged; particularly when they have shared their love with you. 

Godspeed, Perry.  I know you have brought great joy with you to Heaven.

Nonda’s passing was but the first of the dreaded deaths that inevitably come in threes.  No sooner had we said our farewells and begun to try and pick up the scattered pieces of lives so irrevocably changed than my cat, a big coal-black beast with golden eyes who would be the last of his kind here and who had been my steadfast companion for the vast majority of his 16 years, was diagnosed with chronic renal failure and, wanting no part of the supportive care that can comfortably buy more time, took his leave of us a mere two weeks later.  It was bloody hard to say goodbye and I still miss him at my feet each night when I go to bed.  If he didn’t beat me to it, I would always call for him and he would answer with his distinctive meow as he trotted into the bedroom, finishing with a sharp “Prrrup!” as he jumped up.  He would come up close to where I sit in bed reading briefly before sleep for some petting and to groom me in return, then head to the foot of the bed and hunker down until morning.  While I never trust cats around wildlife, Gandalf took the ever-changing parade of fur in stride and essentially ignored all of them.  Only feathers would cause him to stare and so the rare bird was always locked away securely; though to his credit he never tried to sneak into the room while they were here.

There was small comfort that Gandalf had both lived to a decent old age and that we were able to allow him to die here at home; wrapped in one of my bathrobes and laying on the bed he so dearly loved.  For such passings are part and parcel of that circle of life and so as the days passed his things were cleaned up and put away and the change in the daily routine became the daily routine.

It wouldn’t last long, though. 

Barely 3 weeks later we said a rather unexpected goodbye to Franklin T. Squirrel.   Born with congential MBD (metabolic bone disease), almost eight years with him would be a book of stories unto itself.  Suffice it to say that after Sunny died, Franklin stepped into the role of primary “house squirrel” and was therefore often underfoot and more often doing his damndest to get into trouble.  Fortunately, because he had gradually lost his incisors due to the MBD, he couldn’t chew on anything so was able to roam pretty much at will and his favorite trouble was to torment the other squirrels by climbing on their cages.  This particular habit eventually cost him several toenails and almost half his tail since the other squirrels still have all their teeth and don’t cotton to such demonstrations of self-perceived superiority; even from a stodgy, harmless, toothless old cousin.

 Normally rather quiet and sedate by nature, Franklin would set himself up with a “nest” of sorts in various places and spend the vast majority of his time sprawled in it.  His most favored location, the one to which he returned time and time again, was behind the coffeemaker on the kitchen counter.  It took me a shamefully long time before I figured out that a small USPS Priority box and a fleece blanket set there would save us from replacing the roll of paper towels every few days.  After Franklin died I had him cremated and when the small box with his ashes arrived I just did not have the heart to put him with the others right then; instead I put him back in his old spot behind the coffeemaker so he may continue to guard it in spirit for a while longer.

 There have been other passings here as well since then; the saddest being the eyes-just-opened baby fox squirrel who was needlessly but effectively drowned by its finders with bowls of cow’s milk in between sessions of being passed around by the kids like some live Beanie Baby earlier this fall.  Not only starving, she was horribly frightened and wickedly sick with pneumonia; I started her on medication and proper formula but real help had come for her too late.  All I could do was sit with her and hold her close until she died; near the end, coming as the most heartbreaking of gifts, she finally relaxed and started to tick the fox squirrel’s “mommy song”. 

It was as if the tears would never end.

This is her eulogy.

“The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.”  So wrote Richard Bach in his best-selling book, “Illusions”.

And so it is that as we grow and begin to make our way through the big world that lies beyond our parents’ home, if we are lucky enough and wise enough to keep our eyes and our hearts open, we come across family members we never knew existed.  In my life, Nonda was one of them.  As with so many of her adult friends in the latter part of her life, we met because I had found a baby squirrel.  And like most of her closest wildlife rehabilitation friends we spent countless hours and sent probably thousands of emails talking about squirrels.  But somewhere along the way there came a moment when we moved beyond being colleagues, moved beyond even being good friends and became family.

And so I finally had a big sister.  And I finally learned so many things that only a big sister can teach; not the least being that I wasn’t a liberal or even what I fondly call an “old school Democrat” but was instead a staunch Conservative.  I swear that her getting me to see that was one of her proudest moments in our relationship because she never failed to take great delight in reminding me (and others, should the occasion arise) of the day she finally got me to “come out of the closet”.  We burned hours and hours of phone time talking politics and we even started a little political blog together during the last presidential campaign.  While occasionally penning a piece for the site, Nonda more often did what she did best – work behind the scenes to direct me to a particular subject and thereby allowed me to learn for myself that once again she was “spot on” in her common-sense conservative assessment of this or that situation.

I can still hear her voice; especially that distinctive, warning tone when she’d sharply say my name in order to pull me up short or, admittedly more often, used right before telling me to simply shut up and listen to her .  And then there was “the look”; rather like Dr. Spock sans raised eyebrow to indicate you’d reached the very rare but also very temporary moment of one-upping her.  Like when I was given the task of picking her up some wine at the store when we were at a conference and I announced with great glee I’d found cleverly managed to find a bottle named after her.  “Smoking Loon” merlot….

Nonda was fearless in all the right ways and that was perhaps the one trait that endeared her to so many.  She was never afraid to state her opinion or to offer her knowledge or to offer her shoulder and she instinctively knew all the right words to comfort.  It is a lesson many of us could better take to heart; I know it has been a big one in my own life.  I would like to share with you some of the many, many words that continue to be received from those throughout the wildlife rehabilitation community:

“Nonda was a master. She forgot more about rehab in her life than I will ever know. All the squirrels of the world are hanging their tails a little lower today in sorrow.”

“I would call her and ask really dumb questions and she never got mad at me. I already knew the answers, just wanted confirmation.   I am going to miss her so much.”

“The last two years at MWRA I really respected and appreciated her contributions.”

“The rehab community has suffered a great loss.  Altho I never met Nonda in person, I have exchanged numerous emails and shared a few very long phone conversations with Nonda when I was experiencing squirrel emergencies. She was always such a wealth of information on anything relating to squirrels.  I nicknamed her Nonda Know~It~All!!  Sympathies to her family and all who were fortunate to have her in their life. “

“Nonda was such a help to many, including me, many, many years ago when we first started, squirrels being her expertise. Feisty and dedicated to educating those who were new and green she always had time for us and took great pains to explain detail.”

“She has always been there for everyone that needed help with anything and if she did not know the answer, she would find it!”

“She had a very special gift in so many areas and I for one don’t know how any of us are going to move on. However, our work here is still ongoing and we must know that for every baby we help, we are sending a piece of Nonda with that baby when it gets released.”

“I was never reluctant to call her with a rehab problem and did so many, many, many times over the years. I thought of Nonda behind a big desk with a plaque that said “The buck stops here.” And yet she was never arrogant. There were times when she would say ‘Let me run this by PJ or Barb or Sarah or Anita’. She didn’t consider herself the last word although a whole lot of us did.”

“What a loss to the rehab community.”

“Nonda was a pillar of our community.”

And so she was.  That tiny little bundle of energy had enormous reach and profound influence and leaves behind a grand legacy, one that will truly carry on for generations to come.

On my last visit with her, Nonda told me that one of her goals was to be a “better person”.  We had long had no secrets between us so I knew exactly what she meant but, to be honest, this woman was one of the most giving souls I have ever known; it should be obvious by the one statement being made over and over now:  “She was always there when I needed her.”  If I could tell her one thing right now it would be simply to remind her that the old saying is true – only the good die young.

I will leave you with my favorite quote of Nonda’s and one that I now remember when I think about my time with her:  “Their love and trust makes so much of the world seem like petty bullshit. For a way too short while we lived with the fairy dust, the magic; we were and are truly blessed.”

Gently on, Nonda; gently on….

There’s a soft rustling of wings to mark the presence of angels gathering ‘round but they bring small comfort on this day that has come unexpectedly and come all too soon. No matter how many times I have ushered various souls through their final moments in corporeal form, goodbyes are not my forte so my breaking heart is on its knees begging for a miracle.

But it is answered with only silence.

I wait restlessly for the dreaded phone call to tell me that another chapter of my life has ended; thoughts uneasy and fleeting, pacing incessantly between opposing corners of hope and despair. Wanting to jump into the car and drive the few hours needed to close the physical distance but knowing full well that when measured in terms of all things holy there is no distance at all. For the truth is there has never been any distance between my chosen sister’s heart and mine and no matter what happens in that hospital room there will never be any. But this is one of the hardest lessons of being human and my tears fall yet again as if through sheer number they might somehow wrest a different and more selfish outcome.

As word gets out about the tragic situation, I find myself reading my notes aloud over and over again; reciting the litany of the unremitting and seemingly nonsensical timeline to others who now join me in this surreal sense of disbelief and I can feel the Sword of Damocles growing larger as it overshadows ever more hearts huddling closely together.

On this bright, cold afternoon I would like nothing more than to lie down and take a nap but sleep is not possible even though exhaustion draws nigh. There are a million things that can be done instead and several that by all rights should be done instead but the waiting overwhelms, drowning out my mind’s ability to focus and so I wander aimlessly from room to room, doing little things here and there.

But there is no escaping the inevitable and so it is that the phone finally rings and all hope is removed with the precision of a laser, replaced by the ritual of making final arrangements. There is a modicum of comfort to be found in this; even though it is the last thing on anyone’s list, at least it provides the opportunity of doing…something.

Godspeed, Nonda. Rest easy now, knowing you are the reason countless wild lives were able to reclaim their birthright. You leave behind a tremendous legacy in the now-breaking hearts that learned so much from your always-willing, wise words.

You are missed more than you could ever know.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring but one little mouse.
To the stockings all hung by the chimney with care
It ran and it sniffed and it pooped here and there. 

The squirrels were nestled all snug in their beds
As visions of hazelnuts danced through their heads.
While I in the same clothes I wore yesterday
Tried vainly to straighten the vast disarray.

 When out on the lawn there arose such a chatter
I stopped doing laundry; now what was the matter?
Away to the window I ran in dismay,
I opened the drapes to peer out at the fray.

The Moon on the grey of the well-trampled snow
Showed clearly the scene that unfolded below.
For what did my wondering eyes then see strewn
But the obvious signs of a wandering raccoon.

With pawprints distinctive and scat in a pile
The stinker had opened the trash can with style.
Less shyly than other nights he’d come before
I now heard him calling, as if keeping score:

“Come Bandit, come Ricky, come Donnie, come Eddie,
Come Lady, come Murphy, come Jessie, come Freddie!
To the top of the fence, to the top of the can,
There’s vittles a’waitin’ – don’t forget dear old Dan!”

As moths to a flame hurry on to the light
Never stopping to rest on their most frenzied flight,
Now up to the top of the fence they all came
With twinkling eyes that belied each one’s name.

And then, in the space of a heartbeat or few,
I heard the one sound every rehabber rues,
As I pulled closed the drapes and prayed it would stop
Down the chimney the bandit fell with a soft plop.

He was covered in soot, from ringtail to jaw
And he wiped his grey mask with an equally grey paw,
He gave a great shake of the fur on his back
Setting up quite a duststorm – alas, and alack!

His eyes, how they twinkled! His nose, how it twitched!
His brain was a’whirring though he looked quite bewitched.
His big beamy mouth moved to fashion a grin,
As if to excuse this unpardonable sin.

His grin grew so wide I could see all his teeth
And the dust in the air cloaked his head like a wreath.
Then he started to laugh and his fat little belly
Quivered and shook like a bowl full of jelly.

He was plump, he was sleek; he was sure not an elf
So I laughed at it all, in spite of my Self.
A wink of his eye and a cock of his head
Reassured me that now there was nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word but I knew his desire,
A nibble or two and a nap by the fire.
Who could resist such a curious delight?
I gave him a cookie, then turned off the light.

 At sunrise I wondered; it had been just so queer,
But the words that were scrawled in the soot were quite clear.
I stared as the dawn brought the morning’s first light:
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

I think that I shall never see
A woodchuck quite as dear as thee.

For you’re my first, so very wee,
And everything you do thrills me.

Little eyes so keen in sight,
Too-large paws that grip so tight.

Coat of blonde, all glossy bright;
Whinnies that call out at night.

For such a tiny beast your strength
Surpasses expectation’s length.

And yet you’re not the least bit mean,
Indeed, it is towards me you lean.

I am the one to give the milk
So needed by your tiny ilk.

To this you give your mighty all
And suck in fervent, lip-smack thrall.

When you nurse with pleasure clear,
‘Tis milk you really hold most dear.

Throes of nursing bliss you ride,
Until at last you’re satisfied.

Then with little grunts and sighs
You snuggle down and close your eyes.

You seem to know, as Nature’s wise,
Against the odds you’ve won the prize.

‘Tis by the love and care we give
You have this second chance to live.

Yes, we find ourselves head over heels in love here with a woodchuck (aka groundhog, aka “whistle pig” and formally known as Marmota monax).  I have always wanted the opportunity to raise one and was thrilled when, at long last, this wee orphan made her way into our lives last spring.  But as she grew it became more and more apparent that our pride named “Joy” was, as we fondly put it, “just not quite right”.  From a period of strangely deformed toes then later odd little spots on the soles of her feet to her decidedly anti-woodchuck appetites the clues just kept on coming that there was likely good reason she was found wandering on her own without a mother nearby and so it appears she is destined to earn her keep as an educational ambassador.

And it seems to suit her just fine.