He seemed unconvinced. I recanted when tiny, sharp nails bit into the back of my calf. Startled, I realized a baby squirrel I’d missed was making his way up my thigh. I held my back soldier-straight, not moving a muscle, until he tunneled underneath the back of my shirt. Sweat trickled down my spine as thoughts of rabies stormed my mind. Baby claws tracked up my bare back, followed by a tickling sweep of fur. Finally, the squirrel, smelling like wet dog, popped its head through the neck of my shirt. By now, Abelard hissed at my feet, ready to pounce. I had to make my move and get the last baby squirrel back to its nest. Once again, I moved as close to the tree as possible. Fortunately, the baby grabbed the bark and scooted off toward its momma, who continued her tirade. “Whew.” I let out my breath and looked around to see if any of the neighbors had captured our spectacle for YouTube. I waited, but nothing stirred — until the deranged momma dropped from the branch in a fevered frenzy. She landed on my shoulder, screeching into my ear. I squeal. Insult, meet injury.
“This… cannot… be happening … to me,” I stutter. Abelard soldiered on. He growled at the momma squirrel, who obviously thought I still had one of her babies. Both were ready to attack. I flailed my arms around my head, making the squirrel dig her claws deeper into my neck. My obvious terror fueled Abelard’s fervor. He chased us, yowling like the time he’d kicked out the metal door of the cat carrier on the way to the veterinarian’s office and peed on my leather seats. That predicament hadn’t ended well, and this wasn’t heading toward a happy ending. I envisioned a combative squirrel on my neck with a 20-pound cat on her back. My anxiety intensified as Abelard pounced up at me hard enough to knock me forward. The squirrel lurched, then clawed its way to the top of my bill cap. She leaned over the brim, staring at me with dark, beady eyes, as I ran around in circles like a cat chasing its tail. All the while, she snarled, exposing her pointy teeth, hissing foul breath at my face. Abelard stayed the course, straining to get to the squirrel. To keep a catastrophe from happening, I
rammed my body against the tree as close to the trunk as possible, knocking my cap off. As the cap fell, the momma squirrel jumped to the tree and scrambled toward the nest with bits of bark raining down on me. Abelard pounced, then hit the ground, stunned. All I could think as I collapsed to my knees and gasped for breath, joining Abelard: traumatized, meet defeated. “We’re a fine pair,” I say to him, not caring if anyone had caught our escapade on video. So what if I’d had a crazy squirrel on my head? No one would believe their eyes. I tried to catch my breath as he focused his attention upward toward the nest, still growling deep and low in his throat. “Good boy,” I say, stroking him until he purred and my pulse rate returned to normal. “Everyone’s safe now.” Once the dust settled, I realized no animals were harmed in the incident unless you counted the pride of a Garfield-esque cat. As for me, I hurried to the house to burrow in and prepare for post-traumatic stress syndrome, wondering about the treatment for attack-squirrel phobia and a fear of squirrels falling out of the sky. ‡
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