The Squirrel and the Length of Twine

This is a story about a squirrel and a length of twine. It starts out very nicely, as stories go, but let me warn you now: there is trouble ahead. Nothing much can be done about it, but I thought you should know.

There is a squirrel who lives in a very high tree and seldom goes out. He has an elaborate collection of shells in his nest, and this collection takes up a lot of his time. He polishes and arranges and rearranges the shells according to various categories. He corresponds by mail with other collectors and reads scholarly shell collection journals and he's made notes toward a scholarly article on the filbert (Corylus maxima).

I have an very fulfilling existence, the squirrel tells himself. I have my work. Yet he becomes transfixed when he hears the other squirrels screeching in the other trees and often finds that he's been leaning, vacant-eyed, over his work bench, paws up and ears cocked.

One day the squirrel looked out of his nest and saw a length of twine hanging down over the opening. He leaned out and gave it a cautious sniff. Nothing, just a length of twine-smelling twine. He returned to his shell collection and several days passed before he noticed the twine again.

One evening, after treating himself to a vintage California Black walnut (Juglans californica), he decided to stretch his legs. He batted the twine out of the way, hopped out onto one of the larger limbs and looked around. He saw leaves and branches swaying in the air. He breathed some of this air. Distant other-screeching floated through the late afternoon. Then he hopped back into his nest to attend to a newly acquired Brazil nut (Bertholletia excelsa).

Several days later, on a day when the other squirrels were especially loud, he found himself crouched at the entrance to his nest, trying to locate the source of the screeching. He noticed the length of twine again. He took it tentatively in one paw and gave it a little tug, just to see if it was connected to anything, and was startled when it gave a little tug in return.

I should make some notes on this, he thought as he looked up the side of the tree, craning his neck and squinting to see where the string came from. He gave it another, slightly firmer tug and got another, slightly firmer tug in return. Then, for some reason neither the squirrel nor I can figure out, he took the length of twine in both of his hind paws and gave it the mightiest yank he could muster.

As you might have guessed, the length of twine mightily yanked the squirrel right out his nest. For several terrifying seconds the squirrel tumbled through a blur of air and limbs and leaves, not knowing up from down or down from up. By a stroke of good fortune, he landed safely on a pile of leaves, and lay there for awhile looking at what he could see of the sky through the trees. One seldom sees the world from this angle, he thought, cradling his neck in his front paws and crossing one hind leg over the other.

Here's where the trouble begins.

The squirrel heard a rustling in the leaves behind him and looked up and back to see the biggest pair of brown eyes he had ever seen. He noticed right away that they were almond shaped and liked this very much. The eyes belonged to another squirrel who appeared to be smiling. The squirrel smiled himself and was surprised to hear himself let out a joyful screech.

From this point on the squirrel's story becomes unreliable. The squirrel insists that he'd seen this pair of eyes earlier, back when he looked up the side of his tree to find out where the twine came from. When I ask why he didn't say something about this before, he rolls his eyes and tells me that if I don't like his story I should make up one of my own. But I have only this squirrel to work with.

However whatever happened happened, the squirrel is much happier these days, although it would have been difficult to convince him that he wasn't very happy before he got yanked out of his tree. You will hear him screeching now and then, but he hasn't spent much time around his nest for several weeks. His shell collection has gathered a fine layer of dust.

Image above by lee.

They Just Know

Scarfa told Barkela to stop being such a fusspot killjoy and keep moving.

There are like a million of us in that place, she said. Has anybody ever checked up on you? Even once?

No, said Barkela, looking back in the direction of the anthill again. They don't have to. They just know.

That's what they tell you to keep you in line, Scarfa said as she started up a drainpipe on the north side of Wrigley Field, headed for the left field bleachers. Come on, the game's already started!

Barkela reminded Scarfa, again, that there were a lot of leftover crumbs from the weekend. Not to mention the leaky hummingbird feeder on Seminary Avenue.

Oh yeah? Scarfa snapped. Well, may I remind you that we are both in our last phase? This is as good as it gets, B. We are sterile female workers and what do we do all day? We forage for scraps and haul it back to feed the queen and her next batch of larvae. And when we're not hauling food, we're out with the rest of the old biddies defending the precious hill.

I know, said Barkela, her antennae drooping as she moved toward the drainpipe. Scarfa was already 20 antlengths up and still talking.

And when we die, we'll get hauled back for food. But the queen lives for, what, 30 years. She gets everything handed to her, gets to mate with drones in mid-air. And if it turns we have too many queens, do we get to eat one? Oh, no. Her majesty gets carried off to start a new colony!

Barkela started to raise an objection about this being the order of things, but Scarfa kept on with her rant.

Meanwhile, the Cubs are having the best season they've had in a hundred years. Think about that! Our ancestors have endured one miserable season after another. But we could witness something that ants will talk about for generations!

The game was rained out after five innings and in the process the scent trails back to Scarfa and Barkela's nest were washed way. Passing through a yard off Kenmore they encountered aggressive carpenter ants swarming an ash tree stump. The larger ants quickly tore Scarfa and Barkela into several pieces, which they then carried to their queen, a sulky and jaded fan of the San Diego Padres.

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Image Wrigley Field - Waveland Avenue Exterior by talented flickr user wallyg, used under a Creative Commons by-non.

Snow Day for Penguin

Late one dreary Wednesday morning, Barry the penguin (an erect-crested penguin or Eudyptes sclateri) in Apartment 3N shouldered an empty canvas tote bag and gave his girlfriend Sheila (an Eastern rockhopper penguin or Eudyptes chrysocome filholi) a peck on the cheek.

Cheerio, she said, without looking up from her magazine. Don't forget the krill, eh?

Not to worry, he said, blowing a kiss from the door. Back in a tick.

On his way home the night before he'd noticed a hand-lettered sign at the corner market advertising fresh krill, a rare find in Buffalo any time of year but particularly so in February. He'd been feeling a little blue lately, so he decided to take a "snow day" from work and make a fish pie.

It wasn't that he minded the snow or the cold in upstate New York. He was born and raised, after all, in the sub-Antarctic, off the chilly southern coast of New Zealand. It had more to do with the time of year. Despite all the time that had passed since he and Sheila left Bounty Island, he still spent most of January and February in a funk of longing for the sea-kissed summer days of their youth, something Lake Erie never managed to replace.

Mr. Park greeted him with the usual jokes and gentle ribbing about skipping work. Barry shrugged and smiled. Mrs. Park asked about Sheila as she wrapped the krill in butcher paper. Barry bought cod fillets, a bag of frozen peas and carrots, four Yukon Gold potatoes, an onion and a small jar of dried oregano. He thought a little oregano would compliment the krill.

Mr. Park called to him as he reached the door. Don't worry, Mr. Barry, spring coming soon!

A Hummer H4 clipped Barry moments later, as he was crossing Elmwood Avenue. The polar bear at the wheel, a juvenile Ursus maritimus, told police he hadn't see the two-foot-tall flightless bird until it was too late.