My friend Miriam, whom I teach with, rescued a squirrel from the perils of her cat's fangs this past weekend. She couldn't resist nursing it back to life after the trauma it experienced watching its two siblings die. (Seriously, she's worse than me when it comes to feeling sorry for animals. She couldn't watch March of the Penguins.)
Well, I couldn't resist. I know it's weird, but I've always wanted to touch a squirrel. Maybe it's the fact that it's not that common: squirrels just don't let you near them. Or maybe it's because I love animals, and rodents never really bothered me. (How could they when I grew up with two hamsters who I thought were both girls, only to find out that when they were "fighting," they weren't really fighting, and several weeks later there were thirteen of them.)
I knew this was my chance. Miriam had decided that the squirrel was ready to be released into the wild. We drove out to Berry College with "Sookie the Squirrel" in a cat carrier, nestled down under one of Miriam's towels. I got to hold and pet Sookie, and after much coaxing on our part (for the first several minutes, Sookie kept running back to Miriam and climbing up the leg of her jeans) and deliberation on Sookie's part, he finally took to a tree and began to eat something he found.
We were satisfied and felt the operation had gone much better than we anticipated. Though he began to climb down the tree when he saw us walk off, he decided he'd stay. Here are some pics of the monumental day.
Sookie peeking out from my hands
Sookie runs along Miriam's arm
"Should I stay or should I go?"
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