Taking attendance

Here they are, again. Mr. Tilty. The pretty notch-eared momma squirrel who sits on the doorknob. The fat little youngsters who shoot up and down the trunk of the nearest maple to the house.

As they come to our back door, one by one, they aren't really reporting for duty - just for handouts, mainly - but I am taking attendance nonetheless.

The passing of 2009 left behind so many. We have long since ceased calling their names: Miss Tillie, an indoor rehab squirrel, died. Miss Daisy, who was caged right near her, survived to be joyously released. And then there were the anonymous squirrels relegated to the euphemistic status of "roadkill." The young males. The aging mama squirrels. They had no less dignity, no less worth, than the ones whose faces we knew, the ones we'd graced with names.

With 2010 upon us, we are taking attendance again. When they come, they bring a sigh of relief. Another long year awaits us all.

I will continue to call their names and hope for the best.

The other blizzard

The discovery of a rare white squirrel in Massachusetts has made news, just as another white blizzard - of a meteorological nature - is grabbing headlines up and down the East Coast.

As easterners brace for the first major snowstorm of the season - a pre-Christmas one, at that - the Whitman, Mass., area is celebrating the winter white squirrel who has been gracing their trees and their yards.

Unlike the weather, this white marvel's arrival could not have been predicted. And unlike the weather, this squirrel will not require use of shovels or snow blowers. There'll be no icing of sidewalks. No cancellation of schools, meetings, shows or appointments.

All that's needed to do right by this sudden appearance of winter white is to sit back, enjoy and throw nuts.

That's nature's holiday gift to Whitman, Mass. Who'd want to exchange a gift like that?

And a little squirrel shall lead them

Our planet was not quite poised for World War II at the time Hollywood sent these squirrels out onto the nation's movie screens to carry the message of peace. The apocalyptic vision they share in this video is no less potent because of its animated format.

And forgive the twist on a biblical reference I have given the title of this post: The concept of peace on earth makes as much sense in the secular realm as the spiritual.

Please devote 8 minutes to watching this video. Yes, it's a cartoon and yes, the main characters are squirrels, but this vintage MGM video is so much more.

Even now, so many decades later, animals - real and animated - still have much to teach us.


MGM Cartoon 1939 Peace On Earth
Uploaded by shawshawshaw. - Sitcom, sketch, and standup comedy videos.

Of walnuts, acorns and mandolins

The magic of the holiday season has turned a tiny squirrel into something bigger than a rock star:

There he is, at the end of this 30-second commercial for Garmin GPS devices, standing solidly center screen, moving and grooving as he strums the strings of a tiny mandolin.

He shares his brief moment of fame in this commercial spot with other fantasy creations: leprechauns running a marathon and a knight in shining armor behind the wheel of a very suburban-looking station wagon. It's not likely you'll see the likes of these on your neighborhood streets.

This squirrel has captured the imagination of almost anyone who's seen him. Who knows? He might even get fan letters along with a few Christmas cards.

And so a Garmin GPS device has helped guide us into a formerly unmapped territory this season: A landscape in which squirrels can be music makers, working their tiny instruments as if they'd become enchanted walnuts given voice with strings.

Gratitude - or attitude?

On the eve of Thanksgiving, this is for the reddish-tinted mother squirrel who comes to our back door, sits on the door handle, and peers in with those beautiful, high-powered eyes of hers until our door opens and the pecan feast is dispensed, much to her liking.
This is for the little gray female squirrel nearly torn apart last autumn by a predator, who came into my care, healed slowly with the help of a determined veterinarian, and was released into the wild this past spring.
This is for "Stevie Wonder," a squirrel born with no eyes nearly 8 years ago, who can never go back to the trees, but still thrives unaware that he is somehow different.
This is for "Snaggletooth," the adult female squirrel in our yard who was a regular visitor and lived a good life despite the huge incisor growing oddly through the front of her face.

This is for "Mister Tilty," who is rotund and off balance but can scrap run like the wind - and holds his own at back-door begging with the rest of them.
And this is for the three young squirrels in the pre-release pen outdoors who are here today only because three strangers bothered to halt their lives long enough to notice at the suffering on the ground by their feet - and decided to do something about it.

This is for all of them, and all the others. Rest assured, not a single one is grateful.
And rest assured - rest very assured - that does not matter to me in the least.

The unseen

The squirrels are out there. Like their other compatriots in the wild community, they are born, they grow out of infancy and many die – perhaps instantly, or perhaps after a painful lingering – without humans ever taking note.

It is no doubt a reality that most wild creatures similarly cycle through their lives without any human to bear witness. The laws of nature that govern their precious, precarious time on earth, after all, require no human consent, nor do they even require human participation.

This is legislation immutable by any vote.

And what of situations outside the laws of nature? Hit by car. Mauled by cat. Trapped in chimney or attic. Unconscious after a plummet from a tree. Death as a result of an unrelentingly virulent pox.

Here, nature steps aside as humans transform the scene – either as cause of the distress, or as rescuer from its clutches. Suffering, no longer invisible, gains a face, possessing eyes that radiate with pain. And so rehabbers and vets do their best. So do well-meaning passers-by, who intervene at curbside with the shelter of a cardboard box, the comfort of an old T-shirt, the power of their compassion and prayers.

We cannot see them all. We cannot save them all. But for all of them, and especially for all of those we shall never know, we wish them mercy.

Almost

In an animal's world of life and death, there is a fine line between almost and certain. I nearly crossed that line this morning.

My eyes caught a flash of gray too near to my tires on a rainy sidestreet and the good graces of German-made brakes, and my own still-responsive reflexes, kept me on the merciful side of that fine line. There was no impact. A life spared.

Still, I pulled over. I had to be sure by seeing the squirrel's face. I had to look into the eyes that, seconds ago, had been as terrified as mine still were.

I would see reassurance there. And I did. Briefly. All I saw after that was a scampering, spark-like, the flame of life still lit.

All I saw was the quickening of small feet followed by a tail, up the side of a stockade fence. I had not crossed that fine line, at least not in the rainy world of life and death this morning.

I exhaled and wiped my palms on my jeans, shifting back into drive. I went forward, following the squirrel's example.

Wiser than the owls

The acceptable, almost universal symbol of wisdom, drawn from wildlife, has almost always been the owl. Sage and wide-eyed, this bird seems to know it all, except perhaps for its only unanswered life question, which it asks perpetually: "WHO?"



It is time, however, to retire the owl with a new symbol of sagacity.
I hereby nominate the squirrel. Squirrels are known to owls simply as their lunch.
Some of the rest of us know better:

In Miami, Fla., a former school counselor writes in an online column of The Herald, that Stubby, a mother squirrel she has been observing for some time, is a model mother. With respect to the four babies Stubby has been raising, she knows when to nurture and when to let go.

A photo of Mama Stubby shows her to be wiry and wide-eyed, a tiny creature whose physically small brain is obviously crammed full of common sense, survival strategy and yes, wisdom. She is a generous, loving spirit who wants the best for her litter, even if it comes down to tough love. And Mama Stubby, in the urban jungle that is Miami, is making a go of it.

This counselor writes eloquently of the lessons this squirrel has for humans raising youngsters under similar circumstances, lessons of freedom and of faith, of love and of vigilance. And also for getting on with her own life as a squirrel - gathering nuts for winter, preparing for the season ahead and yes, the inevitable winter breeding cycle that begins sometime after Christmas. Stubby will, you see, become a mother again in the spring if the fates are kind.

Perhaps the owl's sole unanswered question is not so perplexing after all, not on issue of wisdom. The still-wise old bird may ask: "WHO?"

Who indeed? No question: Mama Stubby, and all the squirrels.

Big brother squirrel is watching

The Employee of the Month, Student of the Month, Book of the Month and even the Fruit of the Month all have some pretty formidable competition these days:

It's the Squirrel of the Month, a popular and longstanding feature in a West Coast community newspaper called (what else?) The Acorn.



This month's honoree, whose portrait is displayed proudly, is a sweet-faced fellow who, according to the caption, is frequently seen gazing into the window of a local dentist's office. (Making his living by gnawing, of course, the squirrel would have a natural curiosity about someone who makes a living tending to the hard-working teeth of others. Perhaps he was looking for a rodentist?)

The delightful squirrel, looking in, is no doubt aware that a camera lens was looking back out at him. So the dentist was watching the squirrel watching him, and the squirrel was watching the dentist watching him.

Surveillance was never so much fun. Rodent paparazzi rejoice! What could be better?

Squirrel of the Week? Hmmmm.....

Grief casts its spell

It's funny what grief can do to people, particularly when it's grief over an animal. Grief softens the hard edges of human society. Grief blurs the distance between the animal and human worlds.


Grief leaves a wanting that won't go away.

This is how a small town in Surrey, England is in mourning. A week ago the people of the town lost something rare and much-loved - a white squirrel the townsfolk had adopted and named Snowy - when, in a tragic act of fate that befalls so much wildlife, he died after being struck by a car.

So deep and sorrowful was this town's communal cry that the BBC noted it in its daily news report.

"A little light has gone out," said the local woman who arranged for the squirrel to be buried in the yard outside the local church. She said Snowy deserved a final rest with dignity. The squirrel's death, she added, "has taken some magic away from our lives."

She may be wrong about that, however: For a town to grieve as this one does for a squirrel, and for a sacred space to be reserved in a church yard for an animal who lived with such grace and beauty - and who inspired such love and loyalty - is magic too.

A spritely little light may have indeed been snuffed out by a careless driver in a small British town, but Snowy's existence, however brief, burns brightly still for all who remember and will share his story from this moment forward. And for all who may visit his grave.

The magic lives on.

Flick or treat?

Halloween? What's that?


Trick or treaters are hardly a big deal to people who have little gray customers coming to their back (or front) doors 365 days a year. These are the folks accustomed to keeping a stash of squirrel goodies at the ready at the sound of hard nails on the windows, or someone body-slamming the door. (They haven't yet learned to use the doorbells, but give them time!)

So along comes this story from the Whitman College Pioneer , a student newspaper in Washington State. Goofy costumes are the campus standard for the holiday this year and apparently one fellow even dressed up as a squirrel for the annual festivities.

But goofy? Are squirrels really goofy?

I would think that the Sciurus Anti-Defamation League might take exception to that. A bushy tail is hardly an amusing physical feature! Squirrels are the architects of forests, after all, and can scale trees faster than Tarzan can. However, a steady diet of nuts and acorns might be considered odd, I suppose, to the meat-and-potatoes set. (Fillet of filberts, anyone?)

On the other hand, if you think of those who "flick or treat" with their tails and furry faces at your front door you have to have a modicum of respect. That's no costume - it's for real.

And - horror of horrors! - these guys are spookily serious. Just be glad squirrels (unlike vampires and werewolves) are not Creatures of the Night! So keep your treats handy and ... don't go outside your house alone on Oct. 31. Not unless you've got something in your pockets to keep the gobblin' goblins at bay.

Attack of the killer acorns

If it is to be believed - and there is no reason to doubt it - acorns are obeying the law of gravity with amazing compliance and swiftness this year.


The result - abundant food for the squirrels, and an a-corn-u-copia of death, destruction and minor injuries for the hapless humans, auto windshields and other vulnerable entities that happen to be within vertical striking distance.

A report by earthweek.com indicates that this is the year for Acorns Gone Wild and that this is indicative of a Killer Winter to come.

By all accounts on this web site, it has already been a Killer Autumn - giving new meaning to the word "FALL" as it applies to the detritus from the branches above.

It could be worse, folks. Instead of acorns, these could be nuclear warheads. Or baby elephants. Or HumVees.

Let's be glad for nature's bounty, and for the fact that there are still enough trees to do what needs to be done to keep the planet in balance. Not to mention the squirrels.

For the next couple of weeks, carry an umbrella. Or, better still, wear a helmet.

The World According to Squirrels

A new book by Alexandra Horowitz, "Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell and Know," gives humans a dog's eye view of the environment as seen - or rather, sniffed - by this most olfactory of creatures. She writes that dogs are "creatures of the nose" and that their gaze is actually a gesture accomplished via the nostril, and that the input is what shapes their world.


For squirrels, it is likely no different: A squirrel's world is populated by pinecones, nuts, predator urine and, of course, other squirrels, all striking a pose via the nose. A squirrel can sniff out a nut buried beneath a foot or so of snow, which probably would be the nasal equivalent of 70/20 vision. (Fitting the nose with eyeglasses, or noseglasses, would be a challenge however to any squirrels who are olfactorially challenged.)

See this for yourself: Throw a nut or some other goodie at a squirrel and the creature will probably continue to stare at you, even with the treat barely a half-foot away. But once the squirrel catches a whiff of what you've lobbed, all bets are off.

Clearly, this is why there is no U.S.Open tennis championship for squirrels: Tennis balls don't have any distinguishing odors to make them worth pursuing.

The same for competitive diving: Swimming pools smell only of chlorine, a scent unknown to squirrels, and so squirrels also eschew competitions such as Olympic diving (although flying squirrels would likely do quite well).

Likewise, squirrels also don't play soccer or football because, unless the object of the team's pursuit is a giant hazelnut, what's the point?

And squirrels would make awful commercial pilots. Clouds don't smell, and neither do runways. Air-traffic controllers would have a hard time guiding them in to the runway without incident.

But squirrels have better insight than they do foresight or even hindsight and for them, the environment looks so much better when it's viewed nasally. It's no surprise, then that from their own treetop worlds, they're looking down their noses at us!

You can't see the squirrel for the trees

Barely 24 hours ago she had a name, a routine and a safe haven in our yard.
All that changed this morning when Miss Daisy was released into the wild - and into a life of anonymity.
She is, by all counts, just another eastern gray squirrel snuffling around in the soil, nibbling at leaves and fallen acorns, and testing the tree trunks for scalability. She is, by all counts, indistinguishable from any of the other squirrels out there in that vast mass of acreage. She is, by all counts, anonymous now as night falls around her.

She is not just any squirrel, however. She had been a victim of some kind of trauma in October of 2007 when her nearly immobilized form was found at the edge of our driveway. Whether she had fallen, was hit by a car, or had some other act befall her, we will never know. She was not completely conscious and she was terribly spastic. Her prognosis, according to the vet we consulted, was not a hope-filled one.

Indeed, her two year recovery was slow but encouraging. And everything about it led to this day, this morning, when her months of impatient snarls, her long, aggressive leaps and her obviously growing frustration at captivity led us to grant her wish.

Her leaps today took her to freedom. We had to be sure: She had to be steady enough for the treetops, balanced enough to navigate her world and strong enough to fight for her life.

When I walked out of the woods, I looked over my shoulder. I stopped a few times. And yes, an hour later, I went back to that same spot in the forest but she was no longer there. She had moved into the larger universe, invisible, anonymous and just another squirrel.

Just?
Don't bet on it.

He loves them, yeah, yeah, yeah!

The Beatles may have sung, "I am the Walrus," in 1967 but now Sir Paul McCartney's got a solo act with a different mammal: a squirrel.

"High in the Clouds," the ex-Beatle's book for kids about a squirrel's search for a safe haven for critters, is taking a high leap onto movie screens. Wirral the squirrel, driven out of the only home he has known in the woods, goes in search of the fabled sanctuary, Animalia.

The songwriter who rocked the music scene through the 1960s and beyond is supposedly set to pen some of the soundtrack as well, as his popular book gets transformed into an animated action story.

Even without the McCartney songs, the book and forthcoming movie have already proven to be an anthem for animal-lovers around the globe: It's a simple little story about friendship and the right to feel safe in one's own home. That's no magical mystery tour. It's the right of wildlife everywhere.

Come to think of it, people too.

This squirrel's da Bomb!

Goodwill ambassadors come in all shapes, sizes and yes, even species. And right now, a Canadian ground squirrel is proving to be the world's most effective diplomat, simply because he inserted himself into a now-notorious-on-the-Net photograph of a couple vacationing in Banff.

He upstages the happy, smiling husband and wife, and serves as a cheeky, toothy face of cheer and good will as he hogs the most in-focus portion of what is obviously a self-timed, carefully framed shot. Click here and you can see it.

Who can resist a squirrel with such an ego? He is a paparazzo's dream come true.

Now, of course, the PhotoShop jockeys of the world are going crazy with his image - taking the rambunctious rodent who crashed the vacation portrait and deliberately, digitally inserting him into photos. Through the magic of software, he is keeping company with everyone from politicians to scantily clad folks of dubious repute. It's called PhotoBombing! (Which brings us to Lesson #1: Never judge a squirrel by the company he keeps, particularly if he has been PhotoShopped!)

As the world embraces - and then replicates - his image, this little squirrel imparts humor and creativity, and has become a symbol of graceful adaptability, whether he is with royalty or roustabouts.

A small squirrel from Banff is taking over the world, one photo at a time. Put the squirrels in charge, I say, and let's keep the focus on them - with or without a digital camera.

Power (outage) to the squirrels

The recent news reports read as if they might be part of some beastly crime wave:

In Walla Walla, Wash., a gnawing squirrel causes a power outage to 29 homes.

In Carbon County, Pa., a squirrel is blamed for a similar deprivation of electricity to that community.

And in Dayton, Ohio, a squirrel knocks out a transformer, wiping out utility service to a nearby Kmart and causing the store's evacuation.

When the stories come in clusters like this, as they often do, newscasters often feel obligated to nervously make jokes about "suicidal squirrels" or bushytail gang warfare.

But there's nothing funny about the loss of animal life - which is serious enough to those of us who care about the critters and their unnecessary deaths.
In this case, there is also a loss of power to people who might have a vital need for it, folks who may be disabled, elderly or just not able to function well at home with an interruption of service.

Even if utility companies don't seem to care whether gnawing animals electrocute themselves unwittingly on their power lines, they need to take another look at why all these squirrels, and perhaps other creatures, are dying. Whether they care for animals or not, they need to safeguard transformers and power lines better because electricity is the lifeblood of their customers too.

Now that's what you call real squirrel power!

Love conquers all (if you're an acorn)

The way I see it (and I happened to see it twice so far), the movie, "Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs," is not an animated feature designed to enchant children and get adults to chuckle.

It is not even a slick 3-D cartoon populated by an appealing array of prehistoric personalities.

"Ice Age" is a romance. Plain and simple, it is an ode to the undying affection a squirrel (even a prehistoric one, such as the protagonist Scrat) has for his acorn.


Love is lovelier, or so it seems, when this third installment of the film series introduces the conquettish Scratte. Scrappy and sultry, this long-lashed female flying squirrel quickly steals Scrat's heart - and then, quite opportunistically, his acorn too.

It is then that the passionate embrace turns into what is known in the world of professional wrestling as the Full Nelson.

Had Romeo and Juliet been squirrels, the battle between the Capulet and Montague families would have had nothing on the fur that would fly when these young lovers squared off over an acorn.

Had Greek mythology's Orpheus and Eurydice possessed bushy tails instead of flowing robes, Eurydice - daughter of Apollo and herself an oak nymph - would have been no match for the mighty kernel that springs from, and gives rise to, the mighty oak. Her grieving, newly widowed husband, Orpheus, would sooner see his late wife descend into Hades itself than to endure any sort of living hell on earth without his acorn.

And so the heart of the next generation of trees holds a special place in the heart of each and every squirrel.

Love is what you make it. And like the acorn itself it, too, can be a tough nut to crack.

The price of compassion

An electronic dispatch from the China News carries a story about the tragic death of a Sri Lankan man. He died of head injuries suffered after a fall inside his well.

What makes this especially tragic is that his death was the direct result of a selfless act, an act of compassion.

The man had been cleaning his 60-foot-deep well when he saw a squirrel fall into the water from above. The squirrel had been on an overhanging branch and apparently lost either balance or footing. In what was to become an ill-fated act of concern, good-will and compassion, the man climbed back down into the well and scooped up the little squirrel, saving the animal's life.

His next act is perhaps what sealed his fate: He put the small creature, for safekeeping, into his pocket to make it easier to carry him back up. But the squirrel bit him - frightened, no doubt, by his sudden captivity. And that is when the man lost his grip and plummeted to his death.

There are no words to express how truly tragic this is. The loss of good people always diminishes life on this planet for every one of us, and this is surely the case here.

Sadder still is how the news service chose to characterize this story: It is carried under the publication's banner of "ODD NEWS."

I did not know that compassion and selflessness were considered odd nowadays, and I am sorrier still that it reduces this man's sacrifice - the ultimate sacrifice, it turns out - to nothing more than that.

Wilderness

Knoelle is in the trees now. At least I hope that's where she is.

She came into our care last September, a sickly, scarred, cat-attacked juvenile squirrel, found by some caring people at the barn where I ride. And with steady veterinary care and a remarkable spirit of her own, she eventually healed.

She grew. She thrived. She began to look out the windows of the little rehab clinic where we kept her and, no doubt, a longing for the wild, the place where she was born, stirred.

Springtime came. She cracked nuts, gnawed on a variety of things in her pen, buried edible treasures where she could, and her coat - her whole body - filled out. Her identity as a wild squirrel grew more certain as her gaze grew from docile to untamed.

When I set her free in the woods early yesterday morning, a piece of my heart went with her into the anonymous mass of trees. I confess: I did not want to let her go. Not this poor sickly baby, as I still remembered her. Not this delicate, brave young animal.

But she had come such a long distance from last September's chance at cheating death. She'd grown healthy and hardy and was owed this rightful completion of her journey.

And so I carried her small cage back out of the woods - this time, empty. And Knoelle carried forward with her life - and may it always be full.

I don't suppose even in the arcane language of squirrels, the lexicon contains an equivalent of "goodbye."

Perhaps that is best.