Rosemary's experiences with squirrels
Back yard 87
Northampton Street, Buffalo. July 1943—or so. A perfect day. Me under a large
elm tree (long ago killed by Dutch elm disease). A couple of books, a pitcher
of homemade lemonade. (There was no other kind.) And peanuts for me and the
squirrels. You have to understand my lawn chair. The old-fashioned kind with
three intractable positions. You had to get up from the chair to change them. I
chose the most stretched-out position, closest to the ground. A squirrel
appeared and I gradually enticed him with peanuts to take one from my hand. He
ate it and THEN hopped onto ME. He advanced oh...... so............ slowly........
up my supine body. He perched on my chest. HE SNIFFED MY NOSE . He looked RIGHT
INTO MY EYES. I did not breathe. After a glorious, ecstatic ten seconds (for
me, anyway) he turned and scampered down the way he had come. One of the
greatest experiences of my life.
That is the story.
Shall I spoil it by explaining why this was such a transcendent unforgettable
experience. Yes, I will. Being so close, being TRUSTED by a wild creature. Oh the joy of it, the mystery of it. Why did he fearlessly run up my body and look
into my eyes? How many times in the history of the world has this happened?
I saw a video of
squirrels outwitting devices designed to prevent them from raiding bird
feeders. One cost $140 and administered a non-fatal electric shock. They
learned to avoid it by hanging onto another part of the feeder and reaching for
the food. Another bird lover observed the squirrels testing the device until
the batteries went dead.
The most challenging
was a see-saw delicately balanced so that a bird wouldn’t tip it. The weight of
a squirrel would unbalance the seesaw, leaving the food out of reach. No
problem for two squirrels working together. (How did they communicate the
complicated strategy to each other?) They leapt simultaneously onto the two
ends of the seesaw, balancing each other while they cleaned out the bird
feeder. One baffled bird lover said, “A squirrel has a brain the size of a
walnut. We should be able to outwit them.”
Last, a squirrel/cat
story. I fed squirrels from my second story bedroom window. In winter, I would
put out the food and close the window. My cat jumped up on the sill and glared
at the squirrel, who understood what glass is and knew there was no danger,
calmly munching away, glancing occasionally (I thought, with amused contempt)
at my beloved Georgia cat.
Not a squirrel but a
cat story. Ground floor window on Lincoln Pl Brooklyn. Food on sill for
neighborhood homeless cats. One day red cat dining and handsome, sleek, well
fed all-black jumped on sill and tried to drive red cat off. I banged on the
window and yelled. Black cat took off. Red cat resumed lunch. Point of story:
red cat knew I wasn’t banging or yelling at him.
