HELP! There’s a Squirrel …

Warning: this post may contain swear words.

Help. 

There’s a squirrel…

We live in the woods with pine trees, mulberry, and walnut trees and they come with lots of nuts and pinecones. The woods have critters. Many assorted critters. We have deer, turkeys, chipmunks, squirrels, mice, owls, many many birds, raccoons, opossums, bats, bugs, insects and more. Occasionally we hear a creature in the wall. A woodpecker pecking on the siding. An animal scratching scritching. A critter running across the roof. When I complain to my husband he says things like, “well, we live in the woods, there’s animals.” Or he says, “we have to wait for it to leave, we can’t tear the walls apart.” Or “it’s just a branch rubbing on the side of the house.” So, I try to carry on with my life and not stress about odd noises. Until…this morning.

This morning, I went into the bathroom to take my pills, use the toilet, and brush my teeth. This is important. That I was taking my pills first. I am so grateful that I was going to take my pills first. Why you ask, are you grateful you were going to take pills first instead of using the toilet first? I will explain. 

I heard a noise and looked over at the toilet. In the corner, in a basket next to the toilet with cleaning supplies, there was a soaking wet squirrel. He was hanging on the edge of the basket and staring at me.  Peeking his wet little head out of the basket, hanging by his paws, and looking at me. I had to look twice, because surely I was dreaming or hallucinating. Nope. There he was.

So. I slammed the door shut and like any normal woman, screamed for my husband who was downstairs peacefully drinking his coffee. “PETE PETE COME HERE HURRY”

“What’s wrong,” he asked.

“THERE’S A FUCKING SQUIRREL IN OUR BATHROOM.” I was still screaming. 

“What?” he calmly asked. 

“THERE’S A FUCKING SQUIRREL IN OUR BATHROOM. He’s all wet. WHERE DID HE COME FROM?”

“Well,” my husband, still much calmer than I, said. “I don’t know. Maybe the roof vent?” 

“Come and take care of it,” I demanded in a rather loud high-pitched voice.

Meanwhile, hubby is in his robe and slippers and I’m in my pjs. 

“I’ll go get a live  trap from the garage,” he said. 

A live trap? How was that going to work? 

I thought about it for a minute. No way was that squirrel going to dry off and calmly go into a live trap without first contaminating my entire bathroom and making a mess. 

I went into the hall closet, and grabbed a large towel. Then went back to our bathroom where the little drenched thing was still clinging to the sides of the basket. I threw the towel over him, emptied the supplies out of the basket. He chattered at me and tried to get out of the towel. 

What! How dare HE complain!

I put the lid on the basket with the towel and the squirrel inside it, and marched downstairs where my husband was playing with a live trap. “Never mind,” I said.

“I have him.” I showed him the basket. 

“Can you go get dressed and let him out in the woods then throw all this away? I don’t want the basket or towel after this.”

“Set him on the porch and I’ll get dressed,” he said. 

BAH humbug. I decided to free the ungrateful little bastard myself and marched to the back of our 3 wooded acres. In my pajamas and bare feet. Eech, ouch, I was so stunned by the whole affair, I didn’t even stop to slip on shoes.

After I set the basket down, I considered the state of the squirrel. He may be more dry and more active after these few minutes. What if he was mad or rabid and attacked me?

Believe me when I say, with a great amount of trepidation, I picked up a long stick, set the basket on its side and removed the lid using the stick. I saw the squirrel poke his head out.

Hmmm, I thought. Maybe I should put the lid back on, go get my phone and take a photo. He’s kind of cute and no one, absolutely no one will believe this story. 

As I pondered this thought, the little ingrate ran out of the basket, and ran up a nearby pine tree. Not even stopping to say thank you. 

And me?

I’m moving.

To the city.

Because there are just too many ‘what ifs’ in this story…