The morning temperatures dropped into the low 70’s and we were able to sit on the porch under the twirling ceiling fans. It was lovely for a few days following an awfully blistering summer. A couple of hummingbirds hovered in front of my sitting spot. They darted from crepe myrtle to crepe myrtle like a game of hop-scotch. The crepe myrtle blooms were sucked dry so the birds didn’t linger long. Soon they gathered up at the feeders always fighting; never nourishing.
The leaves of the black cherry trees are turning red as they’ve begun to lose their chlorophyll. The hummers sit in the trees; their ruby throats match the changing leaves. We can hope the red leaves are harbingers of fall, but probably not.
Beyond the cherry trees lay the ever-shrinking pool of water surrounded by a couple of feet of dry dust and desert-colored grass. As I was lamenting the pond, I heard an animal distress call loud and clear. Up and around the corner I found Wilhelmina, the cat, slapping at something that was moving. A bird, I thought. At the same time Harry, her sibling, raced across the yard.
The small animal turned out to be a very young and very frantic squirrel. I reached through the circling cats and wrapped my hand around the squirrel’s little body and quickly placed him on the side of a nearby tree. Quicker than you could say “jackrabbit” the cats were on the tree. The poor little squirrel continued its alarming distress call.
Again I reached beyond Harry and Wilhelmina and took hold of the squirrel, this time clutching it close and walking back to the porch where Sam was waiting. I showed him the critter.
“A squirrel,” he said, “You really shouldn’t pick it up. It could bite.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
The little fellow clutched to my hand. I could feel it’s heart thumping. I headed toward the opposite side of the house and deep into the woods. The squirrel started to calm.
It wasn’t the first time I had handled a squirrel, though usually my hand was gloved. There was a time when tiny flying squirrels would make their way into the house. I found when a squirrel is confronted with the choice of a predator cat or me they will gladly choose me.
There alone in the woods I placed the squirrel in a ragged looking cedar tree where nearby there was a pile of brush. Surely the squirrel would find safety there.
I’d like to think perhaps the squirrel will see me one day, or maybe watch from the safety of the treetops and remember his harrowing day. The day that turned out so well for him and for me and ultimately for Harry and Wilhelmina.
As it continued to be cool for a short while I thought of pruning the crepe myrtles and other overgrown shrubs but Felder Rushing’s “Gardening Southern Style,” says to wait ’til spring and so I will.
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