After an abnormally hot, dry spring and summer, we on Puget Sound had a freaky, one day wind and rain storm. It reminded me of another storm when I tried to be a foster mom.
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 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 pre-approved.”
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 on 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 .”
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 or mailed reminders for booster shots.
