Epitaph to A Squirrel

Tildy and I are walking in the door with an armload. It is noon, and we have just come from the library. I let Daisy, our beloved and decrepit, ancient dog out, as we walk in. I empty my arms, and then I turn to walk back out to get another load.

And in this split second somehow a squirrel has appeared who is struggling desperately to get out of Daisy's mouth.

Instinct kicks in. I run over to Daisy wringing my hands and yelling, "No, no Daisy, what have you done!" practically flinging myself prostrate kicking and crying in grief on the ground. But since Daisy is deaf - and a dog - she looks at me puzzled-like. And then politely drops her plaything and steps away so I can share.

I am left with - not a dead squirrel as I expect - but a very frightened and scared and broken squirrel. He is breathing quickly and when I come close, he gathers strength and pulls himself away from me. And then I notice his friend up in the tree. So I figure I will let the thing die in peace - last moments and all that. I gather up Tildy and Daisy and retreat inside.

A half hour later, Tildy is asleep, but that darn squirrel is not. He has dragged himself onto our back porch, and is still crying and chatting with his friend.

What would you do?

Obviously the logical thing to do is to put the creature out of his misery. Could you kill an injured squirrel with your bare hands?

This is not a question I expect to be faced with - well, ever.

I briefly consider plunging the squirrel in a bucket of water and drowning him, but realize in a micro second that this is a no-can-do for me. Create a Dead Thing? Never.

So I contact everyone I can think of to help. The Internet is a wonderful thing.

I call my husband, who mocks me: "Just pick the thing up and wring its neck! Or let Daisy back out." I guess he is in a busy, highly efficient sort of mood. Geoff isn't thinking of the squirrel germs on poor Daisy. Or me.

I call a woman who supposedly conducts squirrel rescues. She hangs up on me when she hears I do not have a car to load the creature into for delivery.

I call the Wild Animal Sanctuary in Keenesburg, Colorado. They save lions and bears, why not a squirrel? And the woman who answers is very understanding: "The best thing to do would be to help it along, but I couldn't do it. The line between a squirrel and a rabbit is so fine, and then the line between a rabbit and a cat... I would be holding it in my lap while it died."

I search around the neighborhood for someone with a killing instinct who might owe me a BIG favor. The closest I get is the guy across the street, who doesn't owe me squat: "I don't have a BB gun. Have you tried calling Animal Control? Why don't you call Animal Control first, and if they don't help you, I'll come over with a shovel."

Meanwhile, the squirrel has managed to scramble all the way across the porch and into the flower bed, and two hours have gone by!

I call Animal Control. The woman on the phone is very patient with my squirrel story, but clearly thinks I'm insane: "We usually say 'Let nature take its course' for this sort of thing, but I'll ask dispatch to give you a call and see what they say."

At this point, it no longer matters. I am out of time. It is time to pick up the kids from school, and with the plans of the day, we won't be home again until after seven o'clock that night.

I say my goodbyes to the squirrel. The flower bed is a cozy, sheltered spot for a squirrel's final moments. Please forgive me for your pain.

At 7:15pm the kids and I come home after soccer practice. We pause on the way in to check the flower bed. It is dark and cold and creepy. The air now has that Halloween feel to it with leaves blowing and rattling. We thoroughly check the flower bed. And check again. There is no dead squirrel in the flower bed.

After tucking Oscar and Tildy into bed, it is 8:00pm. Marek and I take a flashlight and explore the yard hoping to find a carcass. Nothing. Nowhere. Even Daisy on the leash can't sniff it out. But I think I hear something in the bushes.

At 9:00pm, everyone is asleep and I am alone with Daisy on the leash. We head outside again for one last look. As we open the back door and step down the stairs, a squirrel scampers away from us. It stops and looks and scampers some more. It kind of looks like a drunk when it scampers. It has the wobbly look of a biped, rather than the smooth lope of a squirrel. And it doesn't go up a tree like it is supposed to. This is the supposed-to-be-dead squirrel. It is now scampering. I feel chills. It is Stephen King's Pet Sematary come to life. I backtrack quickly into the house and lock the back door. Any squirrel with powers over death like this one, probably can turn door knobs.

It is time for action. I call Geoff again. I told you he worked late hours.

"If I come home early to kill this squirrel, I am going to KILL this squirrel!"

But he appears with his shining armor glinting in the moonlight.

We tiptoe outside together. I shine my flashlight all over the yard peering under bushes and in flower beds. Nothing. And then I spot it. And it is dead! I can't believe after all this, the squirrel dies right after I break down and ask Geoff to come home.

Geoff blows this theory away when he scoops up the squirrel with his shovel. "This squirrel is stiff. It's been dead for a while."

How can this be? I know I just saw it scampering an hour before. I run inside and look up "rigor mortise" online. Sure enough, rigor mortise takes three hours to set in. Great. I am now being haunted by the squirrel I couldn't kill.

As I am pondering this one, Geoff comes in. "Well, turns out you did see a different injured squirrel. I let Daisy out and she caught it again. It's over."

Geoff's autopsy report: The Mom died, and the cute little squirrel that Daisy got - twice - after all my efforts - was the baby.

I am befuddled. I feel relief that the crazy squirrel is no longer in my backyard where my children and dog play. But I am annoyed that all my efforts to keep the dog away from the injured squirrel were for naught. I mean, I could have just let Daisy kill the squirrel ten hours earlier and saved everyone, squirrel especially, a lot of pain.

"Let nature take its course."

Marek has another theory. "You know, Mom, how Daisy has been trying her entire life to catch a squirrel? Well, her life is almost over, and now her wish has been granted so she can die in peace."

Rest in peace, Daisy - I guess soon.

Rest in peace, Squirrel.

So - could you kill an injured squirrel with your bare hands?