Orphans of the Storm: a True Story by Karla Stover

A Hood Canal Mystery based on the memoirs of a San Francisco Madame
Orphans of the Storm

Wind out of the south, whitecaps washing over the floating bridges, the ferry system shut down—a Pacific Northwest storm.  And one post-storm, spring morning while driving to work, I heard that the previous night’s gully washer caused another problem:  squirrel’s nests knocked out of trees leaving a surfeit of orphaned babies.  An animal welfare organization put out a call for foster parents.

Wow!  That sounds like fun, I thought.  I can do that.  I love squirrels.  When I hit the first stop light I wrote down their phone number.

At work, I found a place where a box of the family Sciuridae could sleep while I worked, and where I could retreat to give them little bottles of food and some TLC.  Then I called the rescue group.

“I heard about your need for squirrel baby foster parents,” I said, “and I’m really interested.”

“Well now, isn’t that nice," a lady said, "but before adoption can be considered, I have a few questions.”

“Sure.”

“Your name?”

“Karla Stover.”

“Where do you live?”

“Tacoma.”

“Oh well, now, that’s a bit of a problem.”

“How so?”

“Well, the babies were orphaned in Seattle.”

“I can drive there to pick some up.”

“And there are their physicals.”

Say what?

“Well, who administers the physicals?”

“A vet.”

“We have lots of vets in Tacoma, and running water and everything.  My husband and I have gone to the same vet for years.”

Levity wasn’t her strong suit.

“Yes, but it has to be a wild animal vet.”

I sensed roadblocks—possibly the result of animosity and disdain Seattle feels for Tacoma.

“Well, I’ll ask our vet if he can give them their physicals,” I said.

“No can do, I’m afraid.  We already have an approved wildlife vet ready to take them on.”

“Maybe I can drive to your vet, then.  Where's the office?”

“Lynnwood.”

Lynnwood!  That’s a hundred miles away. Up North. Driving through Seattle's horrible traffic.

Still, I persevered.  “I could do that.”

“Every week?”

“What?”

“Every week. The orphaned babies have to be checked and weighed weekly.  We want to make sure they’re getting the best possible care.”

“Will they be vaccinated for hanta virus and Lyme’s disease?” I asked.  “Do they need Frontline?”

Perhaps sensing my sarcasm she said, “I’m sorry, but we have strict rules and regulations about who qualifies to adopt our orphans and how they are to be raised.”

“They’re rodents, for gosh sake.”

“You see, that statement shows a flippant attitude.  I’m sorry but you don’t qualify.”

Jeez! Take it down a notch, lady, I thought as she hung up on me.

About a week later, I heard a knock on the front door.  It was two little kids with three squirrel babies in a box.  “Here,” one boy said, “Mom said we should give them to you.”

I didn’t know who the kids were, who their mom was, or why she thought I should have the care and responsibility of three hostile-looking rodents.  Their unattractiveness knocked the romance of the idea right out of the ring. Nevertheless, I took  the box and carried it to the garage.  Then I attempted to put dishes of water and sunflower seeds—shelled, I might add—in the box.  Nasty little buggers.  Their only interest was in trying to bite the hand that was attempting to feed them. 

After a few days, when it didn’t look like they were eating, I decided to turn them loose among the apple, cherry, pear, and filbert nut trees in our backyard.  They scampered for safety.

  Ever since, we’ve had squirrel families eating the filberts, biting holes into the fruit and, digging up my bulbs.

And all without physicals or mailed reminders for booster shots.

A Tacoma Washington murder with trips to Seattle and the Olympic Peninsula
 a Gothic novel in the good old tradition