The squirrel story

This is devotion

Heart-breakingly dead

My husband once found a half-dead infant squirrel on the forest floor.

After research, we learnt it should be placed in an open box wedged in a nearby tree and tickled under the chin until it squeaked for its mother. The theory being that mummy squirrel then climbs down to collect her baby and they all live happily ever after.

Yeah, right. I spent 15 minutes tickling the little fucker and nary a squeak was emitted. So I brought it back indoors and researched some more.

Google listed various milks to sustain it and since we didn’t have squirrel, puppy or camel milk to hand, we settled for next best: human. A breastfeeding friend was duly pressed into action. Literally.

As instructed, I carried the tiny creature in a shawl against my heart, feeding it with an eye-dropper at two-hourly intervals throughout the day and night. We were booked into a restaurant for lunch, so I took it along and continued to feed it, much to neighbouring tables’ interest (and some alarm: you also have to massage their genitals to make them pee) (the squirrel’s, you fool).

In spite of all our efforts, it died the following day. We were ridiculously upset. I thought about organising a full funeral but in the end put it in the freezer with the idea of getting it stuffed at a later date. As one does.

Fast forward four years...I’ve just rediscovered it.