Squirrels take the cake!

Sure, there's inarguably something sweet about squirrels. But I never expected it might be the frosting that surrounds their tiny paws.

And still, there you see them - squirrels, that is - adorning cupcakes, layer cakes and the occasional torte. Paws down, they're the cutest things to come along since someone thought a bride-and-groom topper might be an appropriate inclusion for the dessert portion of a wedding reception. (The two examples seen here were provided to me via Facebook postings, and I am fairly certain there are at least a baker's dozen more out there.)

How did this happen? Squirrels, with their paintbrush tails and noble posture, squirrels, with their pledge-of-allegiance pose and folded paws, squirrels, with their wide, wild glassy eyes, have always had their images co-opted for home decor. You see them as lamp finials, fencepost toppers, doorbell icons and even weathervanes. You see their images on switchplates, welcome mats and even throw-rugs.

And now, squirrels have begun showing up in the bakeries of the world - and not just because someone left the front door open and got careless with a bag of hazelnut flour. Squirrel cookie-cutters are nothing new, of course. But now the market is starting to display squirrel cake- and cupcake-toppers, all imaginative things that set the stage, and the theme, for an entire feast based on their woodland antics.

This isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's a happy revelation whenever squirrels can be accepted as consumer decor, instead of a consumer delicacy (as is advocated in hotspots such as the United Kingdom right now).

But let good manners prevail, nonetheless. Enjoy a slice of squirrel-adorned layer cake but eat it now. Don't squirrel it away for another moment. German chocolate cake or hazelnut torte was not meant to be buried.

Like the squirrel, live in the moment, especially when it comes to desserts. Let good manners and good taste be the icing on the cake.

Let's put the squirrels in charge

The news alert from CNNMoney.com logged in with an almost celebratory swiftness: The headline, "Mortgage deal could bring billions in relief," heralded word of a $26-billion foreclosure settlement - which could climb as high as $34 billion when all is said and done - to provide struggling homeowners relief in their indebtedness to some of the nation's largest lenders.

What followed next, on the computer screen, was a very different kind of headline: "Nuts! Diamond Foods boots CEO, stock plunges." Bad accounting practices, it seems, have plagued this giant purveyor of tree nuts, and Diamond's most recent woes derive from its entangled payments to the nation's nut farmers.

Bad deals. Higher (or lower) expectations than reasonable. Ill will bordering on corruption, perhaps. Lack of transparency and honesty. These are the plagues eating away at any number of American businesses and passed along to sour the nation's economy.

What to do? Let's really get down to business, America: Let's put the squirrels in charge.

Consider their track record: How many forests are presently in foreclosure? For that matter, how many saplings are being offered on a short sale? How many maples and oaks have been taken over by branches of JPMorgan Chase or Bank of America?

No, trees are squirrels' homes, fair and square, and when they go out on a limb, it isn't to put their investments at risk. Quite the contrary, squirrels go out on a limb to warn other squirrels of the predatory practices of some of the major locals: owls, hawks, feral cats and raccoons. (Mind you, none of these predators happen to be lenders, either. When they play, they play for keeps.)

Put the squirrels in charge and if you're a homeowner drawing too close to a bad deal, you'll hear the alarm call high up in the trees and your solvency will be preserved.

As for Diamond nuts, their salvation would be in replacing that tossed CEO with a squirrel. Conflict of interest? Hardly. Who values these precious commodities more than squirrels? The tough nut of business dealings is nothing compared to the hard shell protecting walnut meat. Anyone who can crack that can easily take apart a bad strategy and save a company's reputation.

With squirrels in charge, companies such as Diamond, or even the Big Three auto makers, need never worry either about dire straits precipitating a government bailout. Oh, squirrels are familiar enough with handouts - visit Central Park in Manhattan or the Mall in Washington, D.C. and you'll see real pros shaking down the public. But this is the art of the deal, of shrewd negotiation, not begging from a position of weakness.

Put the squirrels in charge and you'll see companies with renewed optimism and leaner operating costs. The board of directors would become just one more board to gnaw on. Successful, whittled-down companies, would be able to bury their competition in record time. "Being in the Black" would become a meaningless, outdated description for a ledger, supplanted by the more meaningful "Being in the Grey."

After all this national recovery, the possibilities for growth would then be limitless.

And in this Presidential Election Year, it only stands to reason that squirrels, swift and skilled jumpers that they are, may want to take one more logical, well-placed final leap. Flicking their tails as they whiz past the celebrated White House squirrels on the lawn on Pennsylvania Avenue, they'd be ready to sink their teeth into the next business, running the Oval Office.

Punxsutawney Bueller's Day Off

Just supppose, in the predawn hours of Feb. 2, the Big Red Phone rings at Weathercaster Central Headquarters in Pennsylvania, and it's the long-suffering groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, telling the boss he won't be in to work?

Or, in Phil's case, he won't be out to work?

Would he stay underground or emerge secretly for a Hollywood-style day of wildness, finally answering the age-old question of how much wood he might truly chuck if his cheerful, cheeky chucking went unchecked?

OK, maybe Phil wouldn't pull a Matthew Broderick-style movie sickout, but face it, if the groundhog ever became a no-show, burrowing down deep beneath the shadows, it would leave the rest of the weather-conscious world in something of a hole too.

Ah, but we do have options. Taking our cue from the current election season here in the U.S., we can hold primaries and elect a stand-in among his various cousins. The prairie dog, after all, has already been given prognosticator status in the American West, where there are no woodchucks to do the dirty work. Further north, some folks look to the mighty marmot.

Then there are the flying squirrels. As nocturnal beings, they would have no shadow-seeking to challange them but perhaps, as these light-footed beings take skyward, we could look for spring in their step instead.

Best of all, there would be no partisan politics to contend with. No mud-slinging - except, as expected, by the beavers.

The Order Rodentia is, thankfully, a nation governed by one party. At least in the political sense.

With regard to other sorts of parties, well, the one-workday-a-year-off for the slacker known as Punxsutawney Bueller could lend new meaning being a party animal altogether: beer can in one paw, TV remote in the other, he'd get his underground stereo blasting.

No doubt he'd boogie to the beat, even after the sun set on the music, chucking as much wood as a woodchuck could, to the song of the day: The BeeGee's "Shadow Dancing."

This chuck's not chuckling

2012 may well be the year that stumps even Punxsutawney Phil, the legendary prognosticating rodent. His cousins - Malverne Mel, Holtsville Hal and even his Canadian counterpart, Wiarton Willie - are likely dumbfounded too.

Even while many of us living in northern climates bask in a sun that somehow seems too strong for this post-solstice season, the question on everyone's not-so-frozen lips is somewhat different this year: How many weeks left until winter?

We are, it seems, shadow-boxing with this page of the calendar. And for even the most hibernation-prone among us, the issue has become something to lose sleep over: Where is winter? We are, it seems, being taken by storm in an unexpected way: A blitz of sunshine. And these oddly warmer days have begun to, well, snowball: Day after day of bright sun. A dusting of white to tease us. Even the chipmunks, yawning off their lighter cloak of sleep, seem confused.

Winter itself appears to have gone underground, reveling in the great torpor that was once the province of Phil and his ilk instead. So has the groundhog been deprived of the Arms of Morpheus? Will he ever again manage to achieve the R.E.M. stage of sleep, that deepest level which unwraps the gifts of all our wildest dreams, burrowed beneath consciousness?

To sleep, perchance to dream, dear Phil. Skip the holiday if you must, and snore your happy snore past Feb. 2 and beyond.
It's OK. As long as you close your eyes and dream of winter.
Make it happen. Chuck this weather.
Spring will come soon enough.

'Tis the season to be ... appreciative

And so, among the squirrel-loving community, the December festivities are behind us and our own holiday season has finally arrived. It is a week or so of glory unto the highest - in this case, the highest branch:

Saturday, Jan. 21, Squirrel Appreciation Day, through Thursday, Feb. 2, Groundhog Day marks a time for rituals of deep winter napping, acorn-gathering, ceaseless chattering and, more often than not, going out on a limb. For the squirrels, at least, if not for us.

Even for the most orthodox and observant arboreal citizens who partake in this season, these rituals offer no opportunity for introspection or reflection: Rodents aren't known for their talents at self-assessment. When you're at the bottom of the food chain, it hardly seems an asset.

Neither is this a time for them to exchange gifts or indulge in acts of charitable giving: In their cache-as-cache-can world, squirrels have a notorious aversion to poverty, particularly their own. They covet one another's nuts. (Holiday season or not, when was the last time you saw a soup kitchen in an oak tree?)

And frankly, this is not even a season sweetened by melodies and caroling. Squirrels burst the winter silence with their pointed cacophany, their ill-mannered, loud and often dissonant chatter.

Squirrel Appreciation Day? It's all the same to them.

Ah but how do we humans - more inclined toward gratitude and related emotions - mark the season? We do our observing by serving. We deck the halls (and every place else) with bags of nuts. Cobs of corn. Chunks of bread.

And we dress in the festive colors of the holidays. Basic gray or perhaps even red for certain parts of the country. Or for those in the luckier regions to have even more variants of the species, a rare white or completely black outfit.

Somewhere after the reindeer of Christmas have departed and the bunny of Easter has yet to arrive, we encounter the simple squirrel of Appreciation Day.

This tiny bushy-tailed ornament makes every tree a holiday tree.

It takes so little to appreciate them.
Speak softly and carry a big nut.

And go forth, appreciatively.

Portrait of the artist as a Young Squirrel

Add this to the list of notable movements in fine art: Cubism, Expressionism, Impressionism, Surrealism and now, Nuttism.

Nuttism comes to us courtesy of Winkelhimer Smith, a rescued eastern grey who believes that wielding a squirrel-hair paintbrush is hardly an artist's sure-fire route to the School of the Masters.

Rather, you need to engage the whole squirrel.

As we see in this video, Winkelhimer has matters clearly in paw.



Given the artist's diminutive size, one could argue the style more closely mimics Minimalism. And given the artist's unlikely talent, one might even press for inclusion in Surrealism. But Winkelhimer bears not even a hint of the signature Salvador Dali moustache and, of course, the facially hirsute Dali was never known for a matching, flamboyantly bushy anterior end.

Clearly, sciurus carolinensis could argue with success that this is Romanticism, plain and simple. There is something about his style, and the tilt of his talented paw, that touches the heart.

The bigger question, however, may well be this: What is Winkelhimer's next masterpiece to be? "Still Life With Walnut?" "Nude Descending a Maple?"

We can only expect great things.

Teaching Samoa a few tricks

The Pacific island nation of Samoa made New Year's Eve news this week through its elimination of Friday from the calendar - this week alone - and taking a headlong, well-publicized jump directly into Saturday. The Samoans have remade the days of the week this week largely for economic reasons: They want to align their schedules more readily with their present and future trade partners.

If this seems revolutionary, imaginative, creative and outlandish, well, think again: Squirrels have been doing this sort of thing for centuries, ever since humans and squirrels collided along the woodland path.

Squirrels long ago decided there would be no need for any Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday or even Sunday. No Sabbath, no holy day of rest. (Squirrels don't rest much anyway). No special holidays, three-day weekends, even any annual White Sales (squirrels don't need bed linens), Fourth of July specials or even Labor Day weekends (squirrels don't join unions).

To squirrels, every day is simply Nut Day. So this is how the squirrel calendar looks:

Nut Day
Nut Day
Nut Day
Nut Day
Nut Day
Nut Day
Nut Day

Easy, no? With the hopes of aligning themselves more readily with the trade partners who freely toss them nuts, squirrels are out there every day of the week - which is always the same day of the week - ready to receive whatever type of kernel their trade partners may be exporting in their direction.

They don't need watches. They don't need calendars. They don't need anything except the ticking clock inside them that sounds the alarm, with each sunrise, "T.G.I.N. - Thank God It's Nut Day!"

Take that, Samoa. You think you're so clever. But you can't outsmart the squirrels. They'll always be one day ahead of you.

Springtime in December

The Christmas carols have faded and the nursery rhymes are about to begin.
Listen carefully: You can already hear the sounds of Baby Squirrel Season 2012. Mass production is already under way.

The squirrels out there - the ones chasing each other - are not engaged in the squirrel version of any post-Christmas reindeer games. And they're not training for the winter Olympics. Here in the northeast, the annual mating game has begun and it is no meaningless frolic. The parts these squirrels are moving across the gameboard aren't exactly gamepieces. These are squirrel "private parts," and this is the serious business of rodent reproduction.

Heaven help us: All I wanted for Christmas this year was a kinder, gentler form of Squirrel Birth Control.

Is it too much to ask someone to fly a helicopter over the world's forests and, just for one season and one season alone, drop thousands of itty bitty chastity belts into the woods?

Would it be too impossible to borrow some of those old Army training films that were shown to soldiers to turn them off to promiscuity and line up the squirrels for a viewing?

Can some clever wildlife biologist please devise an "on-off switch" for squirrel hormones, just to give rehabilitators a break?

I'm not saying forever here but for just one season? It would be like winning the Lottery for many of us.

But Mother Nature supposedly knows better. And there's no force stronger than that, except perhaps the birds, the bees and - sorry to say - the squirrels.

Spring is coming sooner than you think. And this year's Class of 2012, just like last year's graduates and the ones before, all failed sex education.

Brace yourself.

When trees become slackers

It's worrisome enough to make even the most mellow squirrel-loving human turn a deep shade of eastern grey: This is supposedly a "bust" year for acorns, following the acorn "boom" of 2010.

That's not good. Why should humans be indulging their dollars and senses in the untethered consumerism of the holidays - reveling first in the retail orgy of Black Friday - when squirrels can barely shop for the basics to fill their winter pantry? If the scientists are correct, this will be a winter of wanting.

It doesn't seem fair.

Yet a recent New York Times article claims the dearth of these seminal trees-to-be is most evident in places such as Central Park, and will have a ripple effect affecting both predator and prey. Humans are not left out of this ill-fated equation.

As squirrels go, so goes the nation.

Blame the trees which, apparently, are not doing their part. Acorn production, according to one forest ecologist, is well below the average 25 to 30 pounds a year per tree, for oaks alone.

Is this a workplace stoppage? Are the trees going on strike? Or perhaps, like so many American production facilities, perhaps even trees have begun to outsource their output to overseas facilities where tree labor is cheaper (and not even unionized)? Perhaps even underage trees are being forced to produce acorns before they are even mature enough to handle it?

It's easy to see, from the squirrels' point of view, where this can all lead back home in the U.S.: No nut-cache to be had means a future rife with hunger and with few available jobs because there is nothing to bury. Fewer acorns to sprout and grow means, ultimately, fewer trees to house squirrels of future generations.

Hunger, unemployment and homelessness - sound familiar?

The Federal Acorn Reserve Bank doesn't seem to want to kick in its share - adjusting the interest rate on acorns or maybe giving squirrels easier access to acorn credit - but then, would squirrels even accept government handouts at this point? I think not.

There has to be a solution.
This would ordinarily be a tough nut to crack but, unfortunately, there are none of them to be found.

Giving no thanks for all they can eat

They are guests at my Thanksgiving table, and they are too numerous to count. How fortunate they haven't demanded use of the good china, which maxes out at 12 placesettings.

They feast on a stuffing of pecans, walnuts, almonds, berries, corn kernels and the occasional acorn. There is no turkey on this menu - they would not want it anyway. They need no gravyboats or soup spoons. They need no neatly folded napkins.

They simply gather together, each and every one jostling, reaching, munching and squabbling, just like any other ravenous family whose uneasy reunion is spurred by a desire to gorge. In fact, the familial resemblance between them is startling. Gray, after all, is an easy middle ground that even the not-so-style conscious can embrace. Still, it is hard to discern the mothers and fathers from their own offspring. A big appetite is obviously an inherited trait, a dominant gene, and they have passed it on through the generations.

To get to this feast, they had only to battle the holiday traffic out of the tree limbs and the tree trunks. Repeatedly. And by nightfall, they will be bloated with the day's digestion and their own self-importance. Today, after all, was all about them. Wasn't it?

No, they will not say grace before this meal. They never do.
Nor will they give thanks afterward. They never have.
And if supplies run short, they will merely chatter their teeth, stamp their feet and perhaps the boldest among them will take a catapult leap at the screen door. This Thanksgiving buffet is, after all, an outdoor table.

Ah, but the leftovers: An untouched acorn, buried for another day and then forgotten, adds to the forest. A bypassed walnut, packed deep into the earth, begets a tree. Perhaps then, for desssert, we need to serve a slice of gratitude of our own instead.

Let us give thanks, even if the squirrels - boisterous, bad-mannered and bawdy as they are - do not.

May our hearts and our doors always be open to them.

Crime and punishment

Your Honor, she is not a criminal. Annick Richardson may be many things, but the Ohio woman is not a criminal. The London Daily Mail, which has been following her case, describes her in its headline as a "Compulsive Squirrel Feeder." The somewhat less imaginative press here in the United States, simply refers to her as "nuts," careful to adorn the adjective with quotes, lest the media themselves end up in court themselves on defamation charges.

And now, the Ohio animal-lover has had her day in Kettering Municipal Court, facing as much as 60 days in jail and considerable fines, for blanketing her suburban Ohio neighbohood with peanuts, squirrel feeding stations and dishes of water. The neighbors claim that her Johnny Appleseed-like actions (Joanie Squirrelseed, perhaps?) have spurred a sudden and rapid increase in the local squirrel population.

Please, folks: Richardson is merely feeding the squirrels, not copulating with them.

Besides, peanuts are not fertility drugs - we would have a less truncated elephant population if that were so. Peanuts are simple legumes. (Frankly, if Richardson should be faulted for anything, it is for not feeding a more natural food such as walnuts or pecans, since legumes are not nuts and, as such, are not "real" squirrel food. But that is beside the point. Or perhaps she is also guilty of spreading America's obesity crisis to its native rodents by super-sizing them.)

Her Ohio neighbors are weary of finding spent shells - the kind fired by double-barreled squirrels - and tired of the lawns being dug up (which, by the way, many suburbanites pay a hefty fee to have done by professional landscapers each spring. But again, that is beside the point here too.)

A confident Richardson has assured the press she is not a villain nor is she a monster. A pre-trial hearing has been set for December to pursue her case yet further.

Ah, but perhaps we squirrel-lovers shall all ultimately be jailed for our presumed sin. We have gotten the local squirrels hooked on the Nut Drug, then made regular drug drops in our neighborhoods to keep the addicts in line.

Your Honor, if she is guilty then we all are too. Shackle us all and lead us away. But provided our county jails still allow visitors, as most surely do, we should not despair:

Even in the toughest holding cell, the space between the bars is wide enough to permit entry by the very small. And I suspect that one swift, fur-bearing, bushy-tailed visitor will not forsake us in our incarcerated state.

In one paw, no doubt, will be carrying a small gift for us, the wrongly imprisoned: Neatly sandwiched between two shelled pecans, a jailer's key.

Squirrels occupy New York too

Occupy.
New.
York.

Suddenly, everyone’s preoccupied with the "Occupy" movement. The whole world (or at least 99 percent of it) seems to want a piece of the Occu-Pie.

Which brings us to the squirrels. It always comes down to the squirrels. (Or perhaps it comes up to the squirrels, depending upon how high their tree may be.)

Squirrels Occupy New York. (That makes their piece of the Occu-Pie the pecan pie, presumably.) Though many other U.S. cities presently have gatherings similar to the protests near Wall Street, only New York has this special collective of Professional Gatherers.

Theirs is not a protest, however. And it’s not even anything new. Squirrels have always been a part of the city – accosting visitors in the sprawl of Central Park or maybe trailing any other well-meaning, nut-bearing humans in places as small as the city’s numerous vestpocket parks.

Squirrels, it seems, have almost always Occupied New York in a more concrete (or bronze) fashion as well: Their likenesses are carved into the facades of buildings and you can find their distinctive forms immortalized in bronze statuary in green spaces.

Across the city, architects and artists seem to love them too.

And now there is a catalogue of this occupation: A most wonderful blog, "Ephemeral New York," celebrates the metropolitan bond with bushytails in its Nov. 17, 2011 post about these ubiquitous likenesses. Best of all, there are photos. Artists’ interpretations of squirrels adorn bank buildings and flank apartment buildings, accompanying the post, called “The squirrels that decorate New York buildings.”

Rest assured, these figurines are more than merely décor. They are New York acorn icons.

Ah, there is much here to dig through – an action our tiny heroes would clearly endorse engaging in. And there is perhaps even more to be found, yet to be unearthed.

Worry not: the squirrels will get around to it, even if we don't. Right now, however, it’s autumn and they’re a bit preoccupied here in New York.

Polar opposites and unbearable truths

In Canada, a political battle is on for hearts, minds and a nation's new emblem, and the faction favoring the longstanding beaver is under siege from the faction favoring the formidable polar bear.

As our beloved blogger colleague, the aptly named Lone Grey Squirrel, has suggested: forget the beaver, forget the polar bear. What about the squirrel? As a Canadian with a strong interest in the outcome of this sparring of national symbols, Mr. Squirrel indeed raises an important nut worth cracking. (You can even vote on the critter of your choice, by the way, by clicking on the link to his blog, provided here.)



One Canadian politician recently lauded the polar bear as worthy because of its "strength, courage, resourcefulness and dignity," and trounced beavers as "dentally defective rats." Putting aside such blatant animal defamation (and idle fantasies of casting the senator out into Canada's woods in the heart of winter), let us step away from this hairy debate and instead consider the simple merits of the squirrel.


In an environment of global economic crisis, the squirrel is resourceful to the point of hoarding. The squirrel's motto: "Cache as cache can" could become the lyrics of a new global anthem in this money-strapped world of ours.

At a time when charitable giving and worldwide cooperation is stressed for our communal survival, who is better equipped to go out on a limb for us all than the squirrel?

And finally, in an era full of negative thinking, the squirrel remains ever bright-eyed and ... well, you know.



We are not here to defame his distant cousin, the beaver. (Nor are we here to "dam" him.) Likewise, we will not engage in polemics over his polar challenger.

The squirrel is the simple answer for a new national symbol in Canada. Just lift another national symbol - the Maple Leaf - and look beneath.

There, neatly nested in the intertwined foliage, you shall find him. Loyal patriot, he's simply waiting for the call to duty.

No Squnemployment Rate

Squirrels have got the economy beat. They don't lose sleep over the news that there's a 9 percent jobless rate. When it comes to the industry of being industrious, squirrels are nature's own CEOs.

In fact, the U.S. Department of Labor may be baffled to learn that there is practically a Zero percent squnemployment rate. Not one squirrel in this country is presently collecting benefits.

Instead, you can find in them in commercials (Recall the dancing squirrel in the Radio Shack "Squirrel Sunglasses" commercial earlier this year?) Or in ad campaigns, including point-of-purchase posters (Monroe Shocks & Struts has made a career out of having several eastern gray spokesrodents give glowing endorsements to their auto parts). And let us not forget the "Rally Squirrel" whose impromptu antics on the diamond turned this year's baseball World Series into a cause for cheering (even among those among us who are non-sports fans).



And in a few short weeks, Alvin & the Chipmunks - possibly the only tiny ground squirrels of their species who come out of hibernation at Christmas - will be busy serenading yet another generation with their holiday tunes. When it comes to seasonal popularity, they almost out-Santa the big guy.

And let's not forget all those anonymous squirrels working hard these last few weeks, burying acorns - saving for the winter, and for future generations.

So next time one crosses your path - whether you're driving, riding your bicycle, or just taking a stroll - be nice. In fact, offer a handful of nuts, a smile and some kind words.

If the economy continues the way it's been going, you might just be looking at your next boss.

Leap of faith

Just a day ago, they seemed so big: Two healthy juvenile male squirrels, long since weaned, cracking nuts, flexing their muscles with every leap in the pre-release cage. They looked like they could conquer anything in their path.

And then, this morning, they seemed so small: Released into the woods, they were dwarfed by the trees. As they climbed higher toward the sun, they grew smaller still. So many weeks earlier, they’d fit in the palm of my hand or on my lap. I called them “babies.” But now they are free and, in this big world, they seem almost no match for it all.

Not knowing this - or perhaps not even caring - they bounded forth, embraced the massive tree trunks, dug with gusto into the fresh earth, kicking up the fallen leaves. Their brains and limbs were already occupied with visions of acorns and nest-building, functions buried deeper in their genes with a skill even greater than their own legendary ability to cache.

There is always a leap of faith when you open the hatch and say goodbye, and it is never easy to be the one left behind.

And so, for them all, I must allow them the privilege of that leap - and take it with them, even as my feet stay firmly on the ground.

May they always leap with grace. And I pray for soft, happy landings. Always and forever.

The mystery of the woods

Three squirrels, ready for release:
No one knows where they will go in the next few hours. We lift the door and set them free. It is as light and easy as exhaling. And at the same time, as heavy as a sigh.
"Well, it's about time," they think (or perhaps not). And then, as if pages from the narrative of their existence had never been torn out, they will move along with grace to the next chapter.
The word "release" is not in their vocabulary but surely some syllables or sounds exist in an elemental lexicon to express what they feel as the earth takes its rightful place beneath their feet, as their bones celebrate the newness of it all.
Not more than a mile or two away from this vast, wooded release site where this trio breathes in new life, a small litter proved to be no match for the objective harshness of the world. A rescue call came in the night before: Newborns, some with their umbilical cords still attached, had been placed on the ground by well-meaning rescuers - for a hoped-for reunion with the mother, which never happened - and a combination of dehydation, lack of warmth, and a small swarm of ants, had overtaken them all.
The rescuer's voice on the phone was frantic as she hurried them to the animal hospital. The animal hospital sent back a message saying their prospects weren't good.
Perhaps these babies are all dead by now.
Perhaps there was no way to save them.
And perhaps the only certainty here is that we will never know what could have happened and if they even had a future.
As for the three babies from Springtime 2011, who have now grown and are living beyond the sheltered realm of human care and captivity, the same can be said: After today, the only certainty is that they are out there. Hurricane season will blow through, and winter will hold us all in lockdown, and then the January breeding that heralds the baby season will begin again.
Will they survive until then? They have come this far and yet these woods hold so much more mystery than we can ever know. The only certainty now is the undeniable uncertainty of their fates.
But as they wait for the hatch to open, they do not look the least bit worried. Already they are looking beyond.
I cannot see what they will do after this day, but I do believe in it, nonetheless.
And so, I will be content and have faith in that.

"Take Your Squirrel to Work Day?"

All of a sudden, it seems like "Take Your Squirrel to Work Day" has been declared in Miller County, Arkansas: Two squirrels have set up shop on the windowsill of a county building to use as their daytime hangout, and they're even putting in some overtime at the office.

Dubbed "Millie" and "Miller" by their human workplace counterparts, they have even proven themselves to be exemplary county employees: They take their breaks regularly at the office water cooler (in this case, a big water dish set out on the sill to quench the thirsty pair). They are often spied with their eyes casting a longing glance or two, gazing in the window (well, they're already outdoors, so gazing out seems pointless). And, as often as they can - whether the big boss is watching or not - they put up all four feet and snooze.

One of the county staffers working inside the office even goes through the pantomime of giving them belly rubs - with the pane of window glass safely between her fingertips and their little bodies.

Millie and Miller have claimed the county building as their branchless branch office, and they're got everyone charmed. They recently shared their work ethic with all the world in this CBS News Video.

Their workplace tenacity could, however, portend a bit of a labor skirmish: The squirrels seem to savor the attention - not to mention the strategic locale - and often stay perched up there well past the traditional quitting time of the folks inside. One worker, Julie Huntley, told CBS News that these little gray civil servants still remain on duty even after it's time for the humans to lock up their desks and head home. Not that she's complaining, of course. Squirrels were never known to be clock-watchers, anyway.

But wait 'til the department chief sees all those overtime slips - ones marked with curious scratchings on the bottom, where there's space for an employee's signature. And wait'll someone smells these same overtime slips, redolent with hazelnut and walnut.

Union and management might just end up in the middle of a wage grievance that could possibly lead to arbitration. Or maybe just an arboretum.

Taking leave of their Census?

Sure, squirrels count.
But people counting squirrels might very well add up to something even more valuable.

In the Chicago area, an initiative known as Project Squirrel has harnessed the astute observations of several hundred volunteer observers to monitor and record the activities of these locals at various places throughout the city's grid.

No, this isn't a case of sane researchers gone nuts: The Chicago Academy of Sciences has taken this project seriously since its inception in 1997. There is a lot to be learned, after all, about a region's changing ecology from the way its citizens of nature live and the patterns of their days.

This is not a Census in the true sense of the word: No notebook-bearing stranger comes knocking on tree trunks interrupting the squirrels' day to ask how many adults and youngsters are legally living in those branches. No one with a clipboard is taking notes about their annual income in acorns or asking about their ethnic origins - whether their native language is Squirrelspeak or some other Rodentian dialect.

In fact, federal funding for tree-improvement projects or drawing new district lines for Rodent lawmakers' turf doesn't even hang in the balance here. It's all in the name of science, not politics, with findings recorded on a survey form.

Putting squirrel-watchers to work is a good thing. It's not hard, after all, to toss a few nuts with one hand and take a few notes with the other.

Feeding squirrels, after all, is a pretty noble enterprise. But what they can feed us, in exchange, might prove to be so much better.

A window on their Independence

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I could watch these juvenile squirrels forever. And how I wish I really could.
But juvenile squirrels, like infant squirrels, don’t respect the march of time. And why should they?
They deserve to grow up, be something more than cute critters in a cage that we watch for our delight and amusement.

Of course, if you click on this link and survive the one-minute commercial that leads to this fabulously candid webcam, you’re treated to a window on reality that Alan Funt’s old televised 1960s “Candid Camera” could never have envisioned: Young squirrels climbing, running on an exercise wheel, stealing food from one another’s mouths. Young squirrels grooming other young squirrels, completely oblivious to the fact that by the grace of human benefactors’ intervention, they are orphaned but nonetheless alive today.

(If you are unable to see the image and the link, clicking here will get you there instead.)

They obviously love being squirrels. And in their own way, they are celebrating. Caged or not, for now, they are happy with their lives. And that is enough for now, until the real world explodes into the kind of open space that makes every day Independence Day for the rest of their lives.

Justice for all

The squirrels could use a couple of good lawyers.

They are regularly indicted in the headlines. "Squirrels Turn off the Lights in Centralia," "Power outage closes Richmond's Manchester courthouse," and "Bethesda Power Outage blamed on Squirrel," all real-life news stories about the unfortunate consequences of powerful incisors having met their match with the local utility company.

If that were not enough, the squirrels are regularly defamed and blamed by gardeners, who deploy everything from squirrel-proof bird-feeders to squirrel-resistant barriers for protection and preservation of their flowers and veggies. Otherwise mild-mannered, gentle nature-loving folks resort to viciously spiking their millet, sunflower or thistle seed with hot pepper as a deterrent.

And even when a kindly motorist veers to avoid hitting a squirrel crossing the road and lands in a ditch - it is the squirrel who is blamed.

"Innocent until proven guilty" apparently doesn't apply when the citizenry flicks its tail and chatters its teeth.

And still, squirrels are seen as more culpable than members of congress who, without benefit or modest cloak of fur, have lately seen fit to post their various body parts on the Internet, or to chat up underage constituents online.

Where is justice? Where is the squirrels' Bill of Rights?

Well, for one thing, squirrels don't vote.
They don't even pay taxes.
And sure, once accused of thievery or worse, they often bury the evidence too deeply to ever be unearthed by any subpoena. Then they stamp their feet in the face of constitutionality.

As July 4 approaches, however, we should consider celebrating just that spirit of unfettered independence, the kind that gave birth to our own nation in the 18th century. Surely we don't want the squirrels to secede, to draw a line in the sand, or to move elsewhere.

Imagine having no squirrels around. There'd be no one left to blame for thievery, for power outages and for crop failures.

In the end, we'd have no one else to blame - no one but ourselves.