Squirrel in the House (4 page)

Living in a school yard, I know all about school. School starts at that time of year when the very first leaves are just beginning to change color and when, if the air hasn't already gotten nippy at night, it will
soon. Of course everybody loves squirrels, but the ones who love squirrels best are those children who are just old enough to go to school. And during those first few days of school, the year's new batch of children-just-old-enough-to-go-to-school always want to catch us and bring us home with them. The little boys chase us, but the girls are worse. They say, “Oooo, that squirrel would look so cute in my doll's pink sparkly dress.” I have very nice fur. I don't need a pink sparkly dress.

The teachers at the school have to teach the new batch of children the same thing they had to teach last year's batch: None of us who live in the yard—not squirrels, or chipmunks, or rabbits, or mice, or voles, or robins, or the butterflies who are passing through, or worms or even the beetles—not one of us wants to go home with the children.

So I'm looking at the boy—this other guest in the
house of the man and the woman and the dog—and I'm thinking: I don't believe this one knows that whole please-don't-try-to-catch-the-squirrel thing.

I especially think this when he extends his hand toward me and comes closer.

From the direction where all the people went when they left, I hear another voice, the older, slightly bigger boy calling him, telling him it's time to eat.

I take a moment to ask myself if I'm ready to eat again.

Meanwhile, the smaller boy turns to answer, and I use the opportunity to jump back to the pile of wood where I first landed when I came Inside, and I snuggle down low.

When he looks again, the younger boy no longer sees me. “Hey!” he says. “Where did you go?” And he steps to where he last saw me, by the shoes near the door.

The larger boy enters the room. Sounding impatient, he tells the smaller one, “Gramma said now.”

The smaller one picks up the shoe by which he saw me standing. He turns the shoe upside down and three almonds and a pecan fall out.

Next starts an argument between the two boys, with the older pointing out why
it is not acceptable behavior to store foodstuffs in people's shoes.

The smaller one denies putting the nuts there and says, “The squirrel did it.”

Of course the larger boy hasn't seen me. He points out why it is not acceptable behavior to make up stories.

When the smaller one denies that he is making up stories, the older boy points out why it is not acceptable behavior to delay long enough that one of the parents will come looking for them.

The older boy encourages the younger to get moving by pulling him toward the door.

The younger boy tries to resist, but the bigger boy is big enough that the smaller one is sliding in the direction the bigger one wants him to go in.

At which point, the smaller one grabs hold of that scrawny not-good-for-climbing tree to keep from being dragged away.

The older keeps pulling, the younger keeps sliding . . . and the tree tips over, knocking down another of those lamp-things, which hits the floor with a crash.

Wow! People sure keep a lot of breakable things Inside!

The other guests come running in, and—once again—everyone talks really loudly and without listening to anybody else. Mostly, they talk about why it is not acceptable behavior to not mind, and to break things.

I appreciate having been invited Inside to get warm and to eat nuts, but how's a poor squirrel to get an after-eating nap with all this noise? So I climb back up the entryway, cross the roof, jump onto the branch of my sturdy, climbable tree, and go back into my nice nest hollow. It's cold here, but it's quiet. And my tummy is full, which is always a good thing.

I'm just about to fall asleep when I happen to glance once more out of the hole and in the direction of the house where the dog and the man and the man's mother live, and where their guests have gathered.

The smaller boy has just come out of the front door.

Mostly people children who are that small do not travel alone, so I keep one eye open to see if anybody is following him.

Nobody.

By the way he's stomping his feet, I can tell he's angry. Probably because of the whole not-breaking-things conversation.

He is wearing his shoes. I'm guessing he took the nuts out first, unless he's keeping them there to eat later. But the only body covering he has is what he was wearing Inside.

People aren't lucky enough to have fur, much less an attached-blanket tail. Mostly people children wear a lot of body covering when they go Outside. Especially in the snow.

This, I think, is not good.

A polite guest of honor is alert to be sure the other guests don't feel overlooked. Therefore, one of my duties as guest of honor at the dog's house is to see that everyone is comfortable. I do not believe the smaller boy could be comfortable when he is Outside with body covering that is meant for Inside.

I get out of my nest, which at this moment I am positive must be the warmest, coziest, most comfortable nest in the best tree hollow in the world. As soon as I step through the hole in my tree, both my eyes snap open wide at the cold.

I find a branch that overhangs the front section of the yard, and I run along its length, chattering at the boy: “Hey! Hey! Hey!” It would be too much to expect the boy to understand, but I'm hoping to at least catch his attention.

Either he does not hear me or he's ignoring me.

And, of course, there's no reason for him to ignore me.

I jump one tree over, where there are lower-hanging branches. “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

Nope.

I leap onto the clothesline and use that to get to the last tree I can reach without going to ground level and putting my little paws onto that cold, cold snow.

He has his head down as he walks into the wind. His arms are wrapped around himself, and his shoulders are up, which is not much protection against the snow that is falling. He has to step high to make his way through the snow that is on the ground. I suspect that he's already regretting his decision to come outside but is too stubborn to go back.

“Hey!” I call.

I sigh and climb down the tree.

Oooo, that snow is cold!

I jump from foot to foot to foot to foot, but that snow is not going to get less cold anytime soon.

The boy is not heading toward the back of the house and to the school yard—which would be the one place that would make a little sense, if he wanted to play there the same way I like to play on the rides around the squirrel feeders. Instead, he walks on the sidewalk in front of the house—or, rather, where the sidewalk would be if it wasn't for the snow. My guess is that he isn't so much walking
to
someplace as away.

The snow is fluffy, not good for walking on top of, so I follow where the boy has walked, bounding from footprint to footprint.

“Hey!” I call again.

This time he hears me and he turns around.

I have to call, “Hey!” again before he figures out to look down.

“Oh,” he says. “It's you.”

For some reason, he doesn't sound excited when he says this. Usually when people acknowledge me—adult people as well as people children—they have more energy in their voices.