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 and
listening to NPR, 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 who shall remain nameless put out a call
for foster parents.
Wow!
That sounded like fun, I thought.
I could do that. I loved squirrels.
I wrote the organization’s phone number down.
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, but
before adoption can be considered, I have a few questions.”
“Sure.”
“You understand that you have to be
preapproved.”
Uh oh. I hoped she wasn’t going to
run a background check on me. The first time I went back east to meet my
in-laws, one of my husband’s aunts was living in a pre-Civil War house near
Holmes Hollow and cooking squirrel pot pie on a wood burning stove that came
with the home I’d try and keep that in the down-low. After all, what happens in
Holmes Hollow stays in Holmes Hollow.
“Uh, okay.”
“What’s your name?”
“Karla Stover.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Parkland which is just south of
Tacoma, Washington.”
“Oh, 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—the result of
animosity and distain 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 is he?”
“Lynwood.”
Lynwood! That’s a
hundred miles away.
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.”
“Are they vaccinated for hanta virus
and Lyme’s disease?” I asked. “Do they
need Frontline?”
Perhaps she sensed my sarcasm.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “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 sakes.”
“You see, that statement shows a
flippant attitude. I’m sorry but you
don’t qualify.”
Jeez! Take it down a
notch, lady.
About a week later, someone knocked
on my front door. It was two little boys
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 foster moming squirrels right out of
the ring. Nevertheless, I took the box
and carried it to the garage. Then I tried 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 as if 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.
And ever since, we’ve had squirrel families eating the filberts, biting
holes into the fruit and, digging up my bulbs.
All without physicals, flea medicine
or mailed reminders for booster shots.
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