It was the scariest of times. It was the squirreliest of times. It was March 2020.
They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, but I’m pretty sure the lamb doesn’t fit this year. Is there another animal that fits my experience better? Yes. Squirrels.
I did a quick search of “squirrely,” to make sure it means what I think it means. Turns out it means “mildly insane,” “unpredictable and jumpy,” or “nutty.” So, yeah—in like a lion, out like a squirrel.
My sister and I have been taking walks around the neighborhood. On Friday evening, we noticed a squirrel out in the street flat on its belly. It appeared hurt. Both Amanda and I started talking to it: “Oh, poor little squirrel! Are you okay?” Etc. Etc.
As we approached, it hopped to its feet and stared back, alert.
Relieved it wasn’t hurt, we felt compelled to keep up the convo. “Oh, look at you, little squirrel! I’m glad you’re not hurt. What are you doing out in the street? It’s not safe to sleep in the street.” Etc. Etc. We kept up the small talk with the little creature as we walked on.
As we walked away, the squirrel said, “Arf,” like the one-syllable bark of a seal. My sister and I looked at each other in disbelief and asked, “Did he just talk to us?” I’ve had my share of one-sided chats with animals, but I’ve never had a squirrel answer me.
We laughed like a couple of idiots who don’t get out much and are beyond thrilled that a squirrel wants to talk.
Three days later, we were out walking the same route as on Friday, the evening of our fabled squirrel-whispering incident. As we crossed the street where we’d met our little friend, I glanced up at the tree and saw the squirrel flat on its belly, just a bored squirrel chillin’ on a bare branch.
Of course, we chatted him up. “Well, fancy meetin’ you here! How’s our little friend? Can you say Arf? Is that your home? I love your fluffy tail!” Etc. Etc.
He looked mildly amused, but not enough to move. Mostly, we wanted him to speak again — as confirmation that we’re not crazy. And also to fuel our dreams of hand-feeding a squirrel BFF, dressing him up in a red gingham shirt and denim overalls. Etc. Etc.
We gave him plenty of time to respond, but he didn’t even lift his head. We walked on. At the next corner Amanda and I parted ways, and I turned around to go home. When I approached the corner with the squirrel tree, he was standing in the sidewalk staring me down with sweet, little, beady, rodent eyes. I felt sure he’d thought of something to say and tracked us down.
“What is it, buddy?” I asked. Silence.
As I stepped forward, he darted up a tree trunk. Even so, I haven’t given up on the dream of making him our pet and dressing him in gingham and overalls.
Without a doubt, these are scary days. I recognize the immense blessing that cabin fever (and delusional squirrel-whispering) is the worst of our problems; for us, these have been squirrely days. And if I must lose my mind, I’m grateful to do so in a comfortable place among the people I love with the faith that this, too, shall pass.
March 2020 came in like a lion and went out like a squirrel, but I trust that “mildly insane” and “unpredictable” are not forever.
Know that I pray for your good health, friends. Take time to laugh in the midst of washing hands and sheltering in place. And if you can, take in the beauty of nature, especially the fluffy-tail parts.