The Unexpected

So yesterday afternoon I’m sitting on the window seat writing, channeling how my protagonist Allison would talk with Rebecca in their first real heart-to-heart, when I hear a giant metallic clang in the kitchen.  What in the world?  Long ago we had a foster beagle who would whack her metal food dish with her paw when she decided it was time to eat.  That’s what this sounded like, although my current two Labradors haven’t engaged in this arresting behavior.  To date.  

I went to check.  There was something swimming in their big metal water dish.  Swimming! Having fallen from above?  At first I thought it was a frog, it had the same web like motions with its legs, but then I realized no, it was a baby squirrel.  It was clearly struggling to breathe so I quickly took the bowl to the front porch and dumped it to get it out of the water.  When I could see it more clearly, I realized it was unlikely to bite me.  It hadn’t reached that stage of its life.  It didn’t yet know enemies.  This tiny creature, maybe three inches long, its delicate pink gray skin loose on its body, its puffy heavy-lidded eyes still closed, only knew suckling, only knew warmth.  At least until a few unfortunate moments ago.

How in a kitchen a barely born squirrel falls from the sky into the dog’s water dish is completely implausible unless you have been in my kitchen.  Our house is a rather Rube Goldberg construction, with the initial log cabin, the core of the house, put together by German settlers in the 1700’s.  Added onto ever since by generations of inventive homeowners, the roof lines are a creative mess that has resulted in a lovely warren of perfect places to raise baby squirrels.  Ergo. . .

I did what any foster mother would do under the circumstances:  picked up this creature and cradled in a towel, then found a box for it to live in until the next impossible steps emerged.  It’s tiny body was breathing heavily, its little abdomen pumping. As it instinctively curled up, except for its tiny claws and tail, it looked startlingly like a sonogram image of a human fetus.

One of its arms (?) paws (?) seemed at an odd angle, and it had a scrape on its hip (?) but other than that it seemed to be fine, nuzzling into the soft towel.  I ran to the barn looking for the tall ladder so I could climb up and see where it might have come from.  That wall is exposed logs from the original cabin, so it was clear that somewhere up there squirrels were being produced.  

Well, it wasn’t clear.  There were no other babies, no clear place for a nest.  Meanwhile, I called the vet, and when she told me that her wildlife people said to put the baby in a nest of grass “under the tree” from which it fell and the Mama would come get it, well, I decided not to explain the current circumstances. 

I called my husband and he said he would come home and we would figure this out together.  Meanwhile, I couldn’t help checking on it every few minutes, this tiny, tiny creature, breathing, just breathing.  Every once in a while, it would search with its nose and try to suckle.  Its breathing seemed to be slowing.

By the time John got home, I began to realize the inevitable.  John got on the ladder and he searched too.  No nest, no mother, no other babies.  

When John came back from burying this creature, just arrived, so quickly departed, he said the afternoon storm had left a rainbow.  

Our evening was quieter than usual.  I am still not over the turtle that didn’t make it.  Last week, coming home from fetching milk at a nearby farm, I passed a turtle to my left proudly crossing the last third of its trek across the road.  Head up, legs marching, destination within reach.  I pulled to the right, off the road, as there was a big curve just ahead of me, and I knew no one coming from the other direction would see that turtle, or be able to slow down.  Just then I saw it, a turtle’s worst nightmare:  a big Lowe’s delivery truck.  I waved my arms wildly to get it to slow down, but to no avail.  I could barely look back, but when I did, well. . .you know.  

There was a writing spider in the greenhouse yesterday busy stitching together the rubber plant, the columbine and the pineapple lily with its intricate web.  I was careful watering, so as not to do any more damage than I could help.  It scooted up to the top of the web, out of my way, and I talked to it the whole time. Then I took the beehive frames to the barn, the ones we cleaned out when our bees didn’t make it this year.  

Is there an end to this?  No, I guess not.  

At Artist’s Group on Sunday, a friend told us of two friends of hers, each with cancer. As she talked  about the treatments, with tears in her voice, another of our members nodded knowingly, I assume, recalling her own radiation. I skipped the gym yesterday because of some mysterious stubborn pains in my right foot and leg. I have at least two other friends who share Fred Sanford tendencies with me.  At least once per month, OK, week, it is clear that “this is the big one.”

There was a white feral cat in the driveway, the one that eats the field mice, oh, and the birds I feed so carefully.  And we have wild rabbits that come in the early morning and at dusk to eat the sprouts under those same bird feeders.  These are the rabbits that have, so far, evaded Mr. Hawk.

My 91-year-old mother is happy now, happier than she has been for a long time.  My first cousin brings her little jars of moonshine and apple juice with a cinnamon stick. When she is able to use her walker instead of the wheelchair, the owner of the sports bar where I take her for lunch rewards her with a shot of tequila.  

Why not?  I think, why not?  Life is. . .well, you know.