Like most young animals, juvenile squirrels are infinitely capable of finding ways into spaces they aren’t wanted: one manages to secure passage into the roof of my in-law’s home. Aware of it only when the trap begins to rattle against the ceiling boards, I offer to escort the intruder away.
I trudge my way through melting snow and ice to the designated place for its release. Opening the trap, I have a hard time motivating my young colleague from the cage. Finally, it emerges, peering suspiciously at the snow. No sooner do its tiny feet hit the cold surface, than it leaps onto my shoe and scampers up the leg of my trousers. Before I know what has happened, it is sitting on my shoulder, as far away from the snow as it can manage.
Reaching up to grab him with my glove, it escapes my outstretched hand around my back and into the safety and warmth of my jacket pocket. I look around. This has got to be a set-up. Someone must be watching me with a video camera. I’m sure of it.
There is no way I can get it out of my pocket in these gloves. With a billowing sigh of steam, I remove the glove on my left hand and reach in. Its fur is softer than I think it should be and as I wrap my fingers around it, I hope for the best. Fortunately, it does not bite me and with some gentle manipulation, I pull it free.
As it squirms, I release the juvenile and watch it bound across the snow into the safety of the forest. That did not go according to plan. I doubt I’ll be so eager to volunteer next time.
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