May your acorns be many and your enemies few
Maybe, Braveheart, we’d met before. This neighborhood is basically the Paris of squirrel transit—tree-lined boulevards, high-tension wire expressways, and the occasional brick wall for parkour. A few weeks ago, we startled a squirrel on our porch, who panic-climbed the wall, smacked into the ceiling, and fell flat to the ground, only to scurry right back up, visibly trembling. “That squirrel is nuts,” I said to Mr. P.
Was that you?
Or was our first and final meeting that evening Mr. P got home and said, “Do you know what to do about sick squirrels?” Which is not a question I expected from a man holding a bike helmet.
You were in the driveway, dragging yourself by your front paws. Your hind legs trailed behind you, limp. Your little body shuddered from effort. I couldn’t tell what had happened—maybe you fell, maybe a car clipped you—but you were suffering. And you were in our driveway. So we decided, somewhat naively, that we would help.
We went upstairs and shelled some peanuts. I MacGyvered a water bowl out of a Poland Spring bottle. (Not because you weren’t worthy of a ramekin, but because I worried about cross-species germ warfare.) We brought you the refreshments and placed them just a few inches away. You took a peanut between your paws, though you didn’t eat it. When we tried to move the water closer, I poured a little too quickly and accidentally doused you. I’m sorry.
We were worried our neighbor would come home and—well, let’s just say your already bad day would get worse. So we decided to move you to the lawn. It seemed gentler. You hissed and grunted when Mr. P approached with his gardening gloves, a clear “no thank you” in squirrel. You didn’t want to be touched. We respected that. But we also panicked.
The garbage can and broom idea was Mr. P’s. I’ll admit it felt wrong. You made it known it was wrong.
The snow shovel was mine. I’ll own that. It seemed like the least bad option. Mr. P gently coaxed you onto the blade with the broom, and I carried you to the grass. We laid you down, gently, under the tree. A patch of sun lit your fur. You passed a few moments later.
And now, of course, we wonder—what should we have done? Called animal control? Driven you to a vet? Left you alone?
We didn’t mean to rush your ending, Braveheart. We meant to comfort you. And we will never forget your resistance. Your hissing. The sheer force of your squirrel will. We christen you Braveheart because even at your weakest, you refused to be manhandled, broomed, or shoveled without a fight.
Your body may have been broken, but your spirit? Untouchable.
Rest in peace, you fierce little bastard.
