A couple
of years ago I was in Indiana visiting my parents. I was taking a walk down the
middle of a narrow tree-lined street in the neighborhood I grew up in when I
heard a loud, splatting noise behind me, like someone had dropped twenty
gallons of Jello from the tree-tops onto the road. It was loud, people.
I turned
around. And behind me, on the road, was a fox squirrel laying limp. I didn’t
have my camera with me but you know what they look like.
 |
| well-fed fox squirrel |
I
glanced upward. The nearest branch was at least thirty feet off the ground.
Five seconds earlier and I’d have broken that squirrel’s fall with my head.
Anyway,
I was pretty sure it was dead but I was still fascinated. I mean, I’ve seen a
squirrel fall out of a tree and land on leaves and spruce needles and then run
away, but this was pavement.
So, I
took a step toward the motionless squirrel. My brain was a mix of sadness for
the squirrel, and researcher for my writing. How did it die? Why did it
fall? Poor thing. It looks so healthy otherwise.
I took
another step toward the squirrel and it started to shake. I turned to my wife
and said. “It’s moving.” Is it in pain? Is it having a seizure? What should
I do? Am I going to be faced with the possibility of ending its suffering? If I
get too close, will it try to bite me like an abandoned seal pup did years ago?
I took
another step toward it and it started moving—slowly—very slowly—like slow
motion-slowly, toward the base of the tree it’d fallen from. It looks like
all its legs are working. It’s kind of shaky, but it’s walking.
Then it
did something amazing. It proceeded to climb the very tree it’d fallen from
just forty seconds ago.
