“These guys are in trouble,” Sherrie murmured. Inside the cardboard box in her lap, three infant red squirrels huddled against each other. Gaunt and bedraggled, so tiny all three could fit in cupped palms, they were struggling to breathe. One thing for sure: if we didn’t step in fast, they were goners.
A young Tlingit named Seth, a student of mine from Hoonah days, had called. He’d been working on a demolition crew and they’d found them inside an old wall. No sign of mom, so he’d brought them home in a box. Seven p.m. or not, Sherrie dropped everything to make the 50-mile round-trip drive. One thing for sure: the squirrels were going to eat before we did, and get more sleep, too.
Sherrie warmed a couple of ounces of formula and dug out feeding syringes while I lined a box with clean, old T-shirts and a couple of small stuffed animals to cuddle against. My closet was in the process of a critter condo remodel—again. By long-shot coincidence, the day before we’d found a juvenile red squirrel in the yard, oddly tame and glassy-eyed—probably a head injury. So, now we had four young squirrels in our care, all in critical condition. Though we’d rehabbed a handful of busted-up squirrels over the years, they were older, and we’d only ever had one at a time. We’d crossed into uncharted territory. So we called in the pros: our veterinarian friend, Vic, and Irene, a.k.a. The Squirrel Lady.
Meanwhile, it was up to us to get them through the night. So, four squirrels, each needing all the syringe-delivered warm formula they would take every two hours, five to eight minutes per squirrel, divided by two increasingly sleep-deprived humans—you do the math. The good news was that they were all guzzling the formula. Twelve hours later, we still had them all. Irene, who has probably had more red squirrel rehab experience than anyone in Alaska (and who curiously resembles her charges, right down to the red hair), shared some pointers with Sherrie. Vic gave me a refresher on administering needle-delivered subcutaneous fluids and administered the brain-injured animal a dose of steroids; the next day, he explored a bold new front in veterinary science: squirrel enemas. The miniaturized details of the latter are best left unimagined.
I left for my annual trip to the Arctic, leaving Sherrie holding the fort. Despite her continued round-the-clock efforts and continued help from Vic and Irene, they slipped away one by one—first the juvenile, followed by two of the babies. She hadn’t done anything wrong, Irene assured her. They were just too far gone. Of course, Sherrie redoubled her efforts to save the lone survivor. On work days, she lugged him to the dental office where she cleaned teeth—didn’t ask, just showed up with a carrier—and though eyes rolled and the boss made wisecracks, the squirrel stayed. Through sheer force of combined wills, it lived.
Though the young male was out of danger, gaining strength by the day, his battle had so taxed his system that his fur fell out in odd patches. Within days, his body was a checkerboard; for reasons unknown, the hair on his head, forelegs and tail remained intact. If you’d seen the damn thing, you’d swear he was the victim of a prank. Sherrie fretted that he could be bald for life and wondered if she needed to start knitting little sweaters, or pick up some Rogaine. Meanwhile, Vic christened him Patch, and the name stuck.
By the time I returned from up north, Patch had moved from a box in my closet to a full-size cage set up in the guest bathroom. Despite his affliction, he seemed fine—healthy, eating like crazy and putting on weight. But his temperament was odd. Your average red squirrel is ornery by nature—solitary, territorial and fierce when cornered. Quick as any weasel, a red jumping into your face can carve you up in a hurry—a blur of chisel teeth and hooked, needle-sharp claws. If that sounds like the voice of sad experience, you’re right.
So here’s Patch, cuddling in my lap, eyes mere slits as I rub his brisket; hopping up on my shoulder for a friendly nose-to-nose greeting; playing like a kitten with a sock toy; and rummaging around in my pockets to find nuts I stashed. We’d roughhouse and invent games, one of which involved me snatching him up and tossing him to the towel rack; he’d clamber down and beg for another go. I rigged lath from the shower curtain rod to the towel rack so he could practice climbing. If he nipped or scratched, it was an accident. Maybe because we’d gotten him so young, and he’d been handled so much, he’d become imprinted—a phenomenon common with other critters, from ducks to wolverines. Red squirrels, not so much—if ever.
What was to be this odd roof-rat’s fate? There was no place in the wild for a half-bald, affable squirrel that didn’t even seem to know how to make that signature scold noise. He was destined to live with us. And truth told, I was hooked on the little guy. We were pals for life.
Well, not quite. As autumn deepened, Patch grew his hair back, and with it, his attitude. He’d be playing one minute; the next, trying to scratch out my eyes and cussing up a storm. It got so bad I couldn’t let him out of his cage anymore. No doubt the shift was at least partly due to hormones kicking in. But at least as big a factor, Irene warned us, was caching anxiety. Simply put, winter was closing in and, as with any squirrel, Patch had spent tons of time storing food—in this case, inside his cage, the only place available. He’d been piling it up for weeks, and the more he had, the more he had to lose. No longer his buddy, I’d morphed into a magnum squirrel horning in on his spruce cones and almonds.
Patch was ready to go back where he belonged—but not quite yet. He still hadn’t grown in his undercoat and didn’t have a territory or food caches outdoors. Irene, who had a better setup, took him into her halfway house for wayward squirrels for the winter and, the following April, she opened his cage door and off he went. He returned to visit her a couple of times but, within a few weeks, he drifted away, preoccupied with territory, food and making baby squirrels. He probably doesn’t remember me, but I do. And that’s enough.
—Readers can contact Nick Jans at nick.jans@yahoo.com. His latest book, The Glacier Wolf, is available at nickjans.com.