maychorian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maychorian) wrote2013-06-22 12:58 pm
maychorian) wrote2013-06-22 12:58 pm
Squirrels
Another emotional post. Dang it, this weekend. Stop being so hard.
One of the baby squirrels we've been feeding and raising with the intent of releasing died today. It was a stupid accident. A young girl was visiting the house, got spooked when Willow ran toward her, and accidentally squashed her with her knee. Poor Willow had internal injuries. I don't think she suffered long.
Hope came to my bedroom door crying and sobbing, saying something about Willow being hurt. I was still wearing my pajamas. I pulled on some clothes and ran upstairs. Talitha and Hope were in the bathroom. Talitha was holding Willow in her hand. There was blood all over the poor squirrel's mouth and chest.
I took Willow from Talitha and murmured, "It's okay, it's okay. It's okay, baby." I grabbed some toilet paper and tried to clean her up. I was thinking it might be a minor injury. I once dropped my precious pet mouse, Orvie, on a concrete floor, and was afraid I'd killed him. He made the same awful motions Willow was in that moment--convulsing, his mouth opening and closing as if in a silent scream of pain. I think he'd hit his head. There was blood on his nose. I thought he was going to die. But after a little while, he calmed down and seemed fine. He's still alive right now, sitting on my shoulder, even though he's very, very old and I keep being afraid I'll find his little cold body whenever I reached into his cage to pick him up.
I never thought Orvie would outlive Willow. She was only six weeks old. Maybe seven weeks. A baby. She was still more than a month away from being old enough to release. We had talked about releasing the baby squirrels last night, about building a cage and putting it outdoors so they could get accustomed to the surroundings while they grew. We were discussing where we should let them go--the old house, the new house, somewhere else.
Poor Willow. Her mouth opened and closed in agony, blood pouring out. I tried to pet her, I tried to soothe her. I asked where the blood was coming from. I had just bought some styptic powder for clipping Murphy's nails--I thought maybe we could stop the bleeding.
"It's coming from inside her," Talitha said, her voice full of despair. "It's not going to stop."
Hope sobbed and sobbed in the background. Talitha told her not to look.
I held little Willow and tried to soothe her. I looked into her little black eye and remembered, just ten hours ago, feeding her milk from an eye dropper. She loved it so much.
She died in my hand, very gently. She stopped breathing and went still. I continued holding her.
"Is she gone?" Talitha asked, a few moments later.
"Yes, she's gone," I said.
Talitha fell to the floor of the bathroom as if her knees had been cut. Hope cried even harder.
Someone got Hope to leave. I bent over Willow and started to cry. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. It's not fair."
We worked so hard for her. Hope put more effort into it than anyone. We all got up in the middle of the night to feed Willow and Monty. I spent money on Pedialyte, on puppy milk replacer, puppy food, pine nuts, avocados. I pulled off branches from neighborhood trees in my walks around Grabill and brought them home to put in their cage so they could get used to things from the outdoors.
Last night we held the babies on the deck. Talitha and Bri fed them. Later I was holding them, out there alone, letting them feel the breeze. Willow squirmed away from me and fell down on the deck. She was startled and raced to the edge, I got down on my stomach to try to catch her, Monty clutched in my other hand. Willow climbed outside the fence at the edge of the deck, into the bushes, where I couldn't reach her. But I saw her little face, looking back at me. She was scared, not running. "Willow, Willow," I called. "Come back. It's okay." She scurried around, weaving in and out of the fence posts, then skittered across the clippings from the bush, green and evergreen, and back to my arms. I hit my head on the table getting up.
I took them inside and cuddled them and played with them all evening long. They used my hair as a nest. I fed them dog food and pine nuts, and at midnight, their milk feeding. Then I put them back in their cage in Hope and Charity's room. I meant to get up at eight and feed them again, but I was tired and slept in. Hope gave Willow her last feeding.
"I'm sorry, baby," I told her. "I'm so, so sorry. It's not fair." My tears fell.
Talitha left the bathroom. It was just me and Willow's body, curled up in my hand, the bright red blood caking her fur around her mouth and nose, her paw, down her chest. I ran a trickle of water in the sink, pulled off pieces of toilet paper, and washed off all the blood. It took a long time. I dried her with more paper. Hope came in holding Monty, sobbing that she wasn't sure she'd be able to feed him anymore.
I told her that Monty would need even more attention now, because he wouldn't have anyone to cuddle with anymore. Squirrels need to grow up with other squirrels so they can learn how to be squirrels, their language and movement and instincts. I hope Monty had long enough with Willow. I honestly don't know. She was a very squirrel-like squirrel, always running, leaping, chattering. Monty is much calmer and ready to cuddle. Will he be able to survive on his own? Will he have to be a pet now, unable to return to the wild?
This is the first time Hope has lost an animal she was very close to. Talitha lost a lot of birds, but those were hers, and I lost a lot of mice, but those were mine. Hope grew up in a period in our family where we didn't have any collective pets, and she never really had her own. She put so much of her heart into Willow and Monty, and now Willow was dead.
We showed Monty Willow's dead body. I don't know if it means anything to squirrels, if they mourn their dead. I know mice get depressed when their cagemates die. There must be some effect on squirrels, too. He looked at the dead body for a second, then climbed back up to my shoulder to shelter under my hair.
I wrapped Willow in layers and layers of white toilet paper. A shroud. Charity built a box to put her in out of scrap wood.
We haven't buried her yet. She's in the freezer, waiting until we can all do it together.
I'm very sad about this. We always knew that it was a risky thing, raising baby squirrels with the intent of releasing them. So many things can go wrong. And as soon as you let them go, who knows, they could get killed by a car or a cat or a dog, or almost anything. But at least they would have had a chance. It was better than letting Animal Control euthanize the babies Talitha and her friend Bri found in their school parking lot, which is what would have happened if we hadn't volunteered time and money and emotion and sleepless nights to keep these fragile little wildlings alive.
So many things could have gone wrong, but this was the one that did. A stupid accident. Just a stupid accident. No one meant or wanted it to happen, but it did. And we all have to bear the heartache of that.
I've lost countless pet rodents over the years, and it always, always hurts. But I'm also always grateful for the time I got to spend with them. Life is precious, even the smallest, most reviled and ignored life. We couldn't let those baby squirrels die or be killed, because we feel responsible to life when it is put in front of us. God told us to exercise dominion over the earth, and that means caring, and taking care, even when it would be easier not to.
I resisted taking these baby squirrels at first. When Talitha called me from her school parking lot and asked me to come and help, I didn't want to do it. I had cared for tiny abandoned babies before, and I knew how difficult it was going to be, the sleep deprivation, the struggle of getting drips of milk into tiny mouths, the heartache and pain when things go wrong. But I couldn't do anything else. I had to help. There's something in me, and in my sisters, that won't let us step away. It feels a bit like punishment, perhaps, to see that dedication and hard work end with a cold limp body that we have to bury.
But at least we had that month with Willow. She was hard work, and she cost us, but she gave back, too. She was precious to us, and we enjoyed our time with her. I just hate that it had to end, as much as I always tried to prepare myself for something like this happening.
RIP, little Willow. I hope baby squirrels go to heaven.
One of the baby squirrels we've been feeding and raising with the intent of releasing died today. It was a stupid accident. A young girl was visiting the house, got spooked when Willow ran toward her, and accidentally squashed her with her knee. Poor Willow had internal injuries. I don't think she suffered long.
Hope came to my bedroom door crying and sobbing, saying something about Willow being hurt. I was still wearing my pajamas. I pulled on some clothes and ran upstairs. Talitha and Hope were in the bathroom. Talitha was holding Willow in her hand. There was blood all over the poor squirrel's mouth and chest.
I took Willow from Talitha and murmured, "It's okay, it's okay. It's okay, baby." I grabbed some toilet paper and tried to clean her up. I was thinking it might be a minor injury. I once dropped my precious pet mouse, Orvie, on a concrete floor, and was afraid I'd killed him. He made the same awful motions Willow was in that moment--convulsing, his mouth opening and closing as if in a silent scream of pain. I think he'd hit his head. There was blood on his nose. I thought he was going to die. But after a little while, he calmed down and seemed fine. He's still alive right now, sitting on my shoulder, even though he's very, very old and I keep being afraid I'll find his little cold body whenever I reached into his cage to pick him up.
I never thought Orvie would outlive Willow. She was only six weeks old. Maybe seven weeks. A baby. She was still more than a month away from being old enough to release. We had talked about releasing the baby squirrels last night, about building a cage and putting it outdoors so they could get accustomed to the surroundings while they grew. We were discussing where we should let them go--the old house, the new house, somewhere else.
Poor Willow. Her mouth opened and closed in agony, blood pouring out. I tried to pet her, I tried to soothe her. I asked where the blood was coming from. I had just bought some styptic powder for clipping Murphy's nails--I thought maybe we could stop the bleeding.
"It's coming from inside her," Talitha said, her voice full of despair. "It's not going to stop."
Hope sobbed and sobbed in the background. Talitha told her not to look.
I held little Willow and tried to soothe her. I looked into her little black eye and remembered, just ten hours ago, feeding her milk from an eye dropper. She loved it so much.
She died in my hand, very gently. She stopped breathing and went still. I continued holding her.
"Is she gone?" Talitha asked, a few moments later.
"Yes, she's gone," I said.
Talitha fell to the floor of the bathroom as if her knees had been cut. Hope cried even harder.
Someone got Hope to leave. I bent over Willow and started to cry. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. It's not fair."
We worked so hard for her. Hope put more effort into it than anyone. We all got up in the middle of the night to feed Willow and Monty. I spent money on Pedialyte, on puppy milk replacer, puppy food, pine nuts, avocados. I pulled off branches from neighborhood trees in my walks around Grabill and brought them home to put in their cage so they could get used to things from the outdoors.
Last night we held the babies on the deck. Talitha and Bri fed them. Later I was holding them, out there alone, letting them feel the breeze. Willow squirmed away from me and fell down on the deck. She was startled and raced to the edge, I got down on my stomach to try to catch her, Monty clutched in my other hand. Willow climbed outside the fence at the edge of the deck, into the bushes, where I couldn't reach her. But I saw her little face, looking back at me. She was scared, not running. "Willow, Willow," I called. "Come back. It's okay." She scurried around, weaving in and out of the fence posts, then skittered across the clippings from the bush, green and evergreen, and back to my arms. I hit my head on the table getting up.
I took them inside and cuddled them and played with them all evening long. They used my hair as a nest. I fed them dog food and pine nuts, and at midnight, their milk feeding. Then I put them back in their cage in Hope and Charity's room. I meant to get up at eight and feed them again, but I was tired and slept in. Hope gave Willow her last feeding.
"I'm sorry, baby," I told her. "I'm so, so sorry. It's not fair." My tears fell.
Talitha left the bathroom. It was just me and Willow's body, curled up in my hand, the bright red blood caking her fur around her mouth and nose, her paw, down her chest. I ran a trickle of water in the sink, pulled off pieces of toilet paper, and washed off all the blood. It took a long time. I dried her with more paper. Hope came in holding Monty, sobbing that she wasn't sure she'd be able to feed him anymore.
I told her that Monty would need even more attention now, because he wouldn't have anyone to cuddle with anymore. Squirrels need to grow up with other squirrels so they can learn how to be squirrels, their language and movement and instincts. I hope Monty had long enough with Willow. I honestly don't know. She was a very squirrel-like squirrel, always running, leaping, chattering. Monty is much calmer and ready to cuddle. Will he be able to survive on his own? Will he have to be a pet now, unable to return to the wild?
This is the first time Hope has lost an animal she was very close to. Talitha lost a lot of birds, but those were hers, and I lost a lot of mice, but those were mine. Hope grew up in a period in our family where we didn't have any collective pets, and she never really had her own. She put so much of her heart into Willow and Monty, and now Willow was dead.
We showed Monty Willow's dead body. I don't know if it means anything to squirrels, if they mourn their dead. I know mice get depressed when their cagemates die. There must be some effect on squirrels, too. He looked at the dead body for a second, then climbed back up to my shoulder to shelter under my hair.
I wrapped Willow in layers and layers of white toilet paper. A shroud. Charity built a box to put her in out of scrap wood.
We haven't buried her yet. She's in the freezer, waiting until we can all do it together.
I'm very sad about this. We always knew that it was a risky thing, raising baby squirrels with the intent of releasing them. So many things can go wrong. And as soon as you let them go, who knows, they could get killed by a car or a cat or a dog, or almost anything. But at least they would have had a chance. It was better than letting Animal Control euthanize the babies Talitha and her friend Bri found in their school parking lot, which is what would have happened if we hadn't volunteered time and money and emotion and sleepless nights to keep these fragile little wildlings alive.
So many things could have gone wrong, but this was the one that did. A stupid accident. Just a stupid accident. No one meant or wanted it to happen, but it did. And we all have to bear the heartache of that.
I've lost countless pet rodents over the years, and it always, always hurts. But I'm also always grateful for the time I got to spend with them. Life is precious, even the smallest, most reviled and ignored life. We couldn't let those baby squirrels die or be killed, because we feel responsible to life when it is put in front of us. God told us to exercise dominion over the earth, and that means caring, and taking care, even when it would be easier not to.
I resisted taking these baby squirrels at first. When Talitha called me from her school parking lot and asked me to come and help, I didn't want to do it. I had cared for tiny abandoned babies before, and I knew how difficult it was going to be, the sleep deprivation, the struggle of getting drips of milk into tiny mouths, the heartache and pain when things go wrong. But I couldn't do anything else. I had to help. There's something in me, and in my sisters, that won't let us step away. It feels a bit like punishment, perhaps, to see that dedication and hard work end with a cold limp body that we have to bury.
But at least we had that month with Willow. She was hard work, and she cost us, but she gave back, too. She was precious to us, and we enjoyed our time with her. I just hate that it had to end, as much as I always tried to prepare myself for something like this happening.
RIP, little Willow. I hope baby squirrels go to heaven.