I opened our shed door, like I do countess times throughout the summer, to retrieve my gardening supplies. I screamed as something moved in the far corner. It moved hastily off the wide shelf running along the back, knocking over pots and sprinklers, climbed the wall, and vanished out the vent at the top peak in a few seconds flat. With a pounding heart, my eyes followed its path up the wall to the vent and saw a ripped screen and broken vent cover. I went outside to look up and saw the same broken vent and ripped screen.
What was that? I was not entirely sure but thought it was a gray squirrel that scared the living daylights out of me. Perhaps I scared it as badly as well, judging by the speed it vacated.
Being the handywoman I am, I rummaged around our firepit area and found a board. I grabbed our stepladder, a few nails, and a hammer and I covered that broken vent up. Problem solved. No more squirrels in our shed!
The next day, the board I chose had been chewed clear through and the opening in the vent was once again accessible. With dropped jaw and unbelieving eyes, I opened the shed again, cautiously this time, and sure enough, a squirrel clamored out of the same back dark corner of the shelf, up the wall, and out the vent opening.
That did it. Grabbing my ladder and hammer, I took the nails out and removed the loosely hanging pieces of the board. I realized the board I foolishly chose was thin and rotting. I tossed it back on the firepit. This time I found a thick, fresh 2”x4” chunk, climbed back up, and hammered with all my might. It was quite the job and I briefly wondered what the neighbors thought if they glanced out their window at me. With an aching arm, I folded my ladder up and headed in, satisfied the hole was covered until I could figure out a more permanent fix.
The next morning I glanced out my bedroom window and noticed the squirrel lying dejectedly on top of the roof of the shed. It was sprawled on its belly, with its head on the peak. I couldn’t tell if it was sleeping or just hanging out, but it looked sad—if this is a fair emotion to attach to an animal. In any case, it was an awfully unusual place to hang out. I went back to the shed and it jumped off and scampered up the nearby tree. I saw that it had tried in several places to gnaw through the thicker board I had nailed up but couldn’t get through. What in the dickens? It must have chewed all through the night.
[Photo by Trac Vu on Unsplash ]
Feeling smug that I was winning at keeping this creature out of my shed, I went back in the house. Throughout the day, I glanced out my window and noticed the squirrel oddly continuing to hang out on the roof of the shed. I made another trip out later to check if my board was holding. This time the squirrel jumped out of the tree, onto the roof of the shed, came to the edge of it, held my gaze with piercing eyes, and began to chatter at me.
As I stood looking up at it, never have I been more convinced that a creature of the wild was trying desperately to communicate with me. This squirrel was literally begging me to help her by the desperation in her eyes and the sounds coming out of her body. I stood there for the longest time, gazing up at her, and it dawned on me that this must be a mother squirrel. And she must have a nest of babies in that shed of mine. I spoke softly back to her, with compassion and understanding.
I slowly went back to the garage, found my hammer and ladder, and began to take the board off the vent again. It was the right thing to do. The only humane thing to do. I felt a moral imperative on my heart. I couldn’t move her nest. I certainly couldn’t keep her from it. Those babies needed her and her milk to survive.
The next hardest thing was explaining this all to my husband and asking him to hold off on having the vent fixed until after she had finished nursing her babies and they all vacated. I said it wouldn’t be forever—they don’t want to live in a shed—they want to live in trees.
And then we Made Space for each other. I opened the shed door slowly and cautiously and braced myself for the movement and her scrambling up and out each time. I taught my kids to do the same, to not be afraid and to not go near her corner.
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This was a couple of summers ago. One day it was just quiet. I never saw her leave for the last time and have no idea how she taught the babies to leave. The nesting materials she used in the back corner have been cleaned out, the screen replaced, and both air vents have now been switched over to metal ones. We’ve had no more signs of life in our shed—rodent, insect, or any size mammal. All is well.
My encounter with this momma squirrel made her mark on me. She was brave. She was courageous. She was relentless. She was desperate. She would do anything to get back to care for her young and give them life, even when I, filled with strength and power, stood in her way.
I’m watching the suffering and deaths of the women and children in Gaza from the safety of my home, worlds away from the horror they live with each day. I think about the acts of desperation those moms have attempted to keep their babies safe. Fed. Hydrated. Cared for and safe when nothing is safe. The failed attempts I’ll never know.
To be a Palestinian, trapped on a strip of land, with war raging for seven months, no schools or hospitals or beauty left, destruction everywhere, no food or clean water to give myself or my children, and no humanitarian aid getting through, is something my mind does not want to imagine. To be a mom holding the limp body of my dying child is a place my heart cannot go.
I feel a sense of moral outrage for what is happening in Gaza. It is unconscionable.
Like the mother squirrel who stared me in the eye and implored me to do the right thing, there is that same moral imperative being placed on my heart—to not turn a blind, callous eye to the suffering just across the ocean. To not remain aloof or oblivious and just go about my life. Rather, to cry out for mercy and justice, to be the voice of those who have no voice, to stay in solidarity, to pray hard for peace, for an end to the violence and hell that war brings to the innocent.
Wendy, can you change my email to jacquelynsgraham@msn.com so that I don't miss out on your blog? Thanks.
Wow, what a powerful essay. I am not a fan of squirrels but I hope I would have done the same thing you did.