Nancy McCabe recognition. Now, all day every day, I pass face after face that looks like this, wiped free of expression, our animation dissolved into slow, careful navigation of an uncertain world. Above my head, the floor rattles rhythmically. In the attic crawl space, I find that the Havahart trap has closed its doors on a frantic red squirrel. It whips around from one end to the other, lunging with bared teeth at the metal bars. As I carry the trap down to the porch, the animal heaves itself repeatedly against the door. It’s so small, this creature whose presence has consumed so much of my energy, so small and yet so powerful; later I will discover that these panicked attempts to escape have bent the lever that trips the door. The trap will never work properly again. After eight hours in a trap, they die of heart attacks, I’ve heard. We’re starved, but I won’t be able to eat till the squirrel has been freed. My friend Kyoko comes over to help. We upturn a laundry basket over the trap in my car trunk, double assurance that the animal won’t escape. Then we drive to the woods on the edge of campus. When I open the trunk, the squirrel is still. “The fumes must have killed it,” Kyoko says. But when I set the trap on the ground and release the door, the squirrel shoots out, one long muscle, bullet-swift into the woods. Watching, my tension lifts a little. “It’s getting cold out,” Kyoko says. “The squirrel hasn’t had a chance to prepare for hibernation. It will probably die anyway.” On Monday our secretary tells me she heard an animal scrambling in the ceiling of our building. I secretly hope my squirrel has found a new refuge. My secret hopes backfire on me when some small animal devours an entire bag of Hershey’s kisses I left in my desk. The next day, I find a drawerful of silver foil wrapper crumbs. One Saturday, a chipmunk leaps out at Carys, and we spend an entire week chasing more chipmunks out of our offices, classrooms, and the computer lab. Caution: Chipmunk Inside, say signs on classroom doors. Do Not Enter: Chipmunk Inside, says the bathroom door Carys has gleefully slammed just in time to barricade in another small animal. This is nothing. Some people sight bears and mountain lions in their yards. I’m not used to living with wildlife, not like this. I’m used to an illusion of control over my territory, not to these sneaky little creatures flitting across my office floor, munching my chocolate, or rustling above my bed. Crab Orchard Review
◆ 181