Case of the Kamikaze Squirrel

I needed to save my window air conditioner being pelted with the brick-sized debris from the attached rehabbed building next door. I pulled it out of the wrought iron cage in which its nearly foot-and-a-half extended back rested, and on to my living room floor. This was a couple of months ago, before the summer sweltering began, and I could afford to leave the window wide open for alley-moldy-brick-smelling fresh air. I neglected to replace the window screen.

A few mornings later, I happened to glance over just in time to see the bushy grey-black tail of a squirrel jumping into my room from that unadvisedly open window. It occurred to me that I had choices: fruitlessly chase a squirrel around my house all day and miss work; shut the window, let it starve, then sweep the carcass out into the street for the neighborhood cat snacks; or give it up as a day starting all wrong.

When I returned that evening, it was as if the squirrel heard my intrusion, and this time I saw it stair-step on to the conveniently positioned air conditioner, up to the window sill, and then out into the cage. I rushed to the window with the grace and speed of an Olympic track star, slid the pane down with a resounding thud, and pulled closed the drapery. Comforted, smug, and feeling that the day had somehow righted itself, I snuggled into my throne – a covered wing chair worn down over time to the exact contour of my back and rear end. Then I heard the first thump.

The rapidity of the following thumps led me directly to the window where I slid the drapery aside just wide enough to peek at this Kamikaze Squirrel throwing itself up against the pane of glass. Periodically it revolved in a tight circle, profusely chitter, and then maniacally batter the window again. It wasn’t strong enough to break the glass, but I wondered if the nut-job was going to hurt itself demanding to get itself back into MY home. Several minutes elapsed before it finally stopped and went away – or at least I think it did, since I cowardly retreated to the sanity of my bedroom, leaving the Kamikaze Squirrel to the privacy of its dementia.

Yesterday, rearranging my living room to accommodate strategic placement of several speakers of my newly purchased home theater system (currently a bunch of expensive component paper weights because I can’t seem to get the wiring and cabling correct – another story!), I moved a heavy credenza. Some shredded paper was dislodged behind it. Moving the furniture from the wall to sweep away the offending disclosure of inept housekeeping, I discovered that what I once thought was a few bits of scrap paper was measuring up to be a rather large bunch, in fact, a telephone book of shredded paper. Revelation dawned.

In time for the worst of the concrete jungle’s highly humidified days, and suspension of the attached building’s rehab destruction of my property, I had restored the air conditioner to its rightful place in the window. The back of the heavy machine was braced up with two fresh telephone books, replacing the previous wet and moldy one – one book, not two. The other missing book I now realize was the one that had been removed by the Kamikaze Squirrel and stuffed into the warm, dark and quiet cave-space under the bottom drawer behind the credenza to make a home for itself – and most likely for its family.

I know the Kamikaze Squirrel had a right to go up against anything that came between it and its home. It hadn’t done one thing wrong, and it wasn’t crazy. It did what every sentient living being has a right to do: fight for and protect his, her, or its home. The Kamikaze Squirrel lost out anyway. It didn’t matter that it was right. It did as much as I had done to protect my own home. I was beaten, too.

The Kamikaze Squirrel lost its home to a rent-paying, animal intolerant, lone-wolf, take-no-prisoners ghetto fighter. Amazingly, I lost my son to an insecure drama queen of a Southern belle DIL. I’m still dizzy from the sucker-punching tag team of her whole family. (“A family who plays together . . . .”)

We did nothing wrong, the Kamikaze Squirrel and me, but just the same, we’ve been dissed, pissed, and then dismissed. We’ve been hurt.

It doesn’t make one bit of difference; the Universe doesn’t care.

The Kamikaze Squirrel’s home was destroyed as completely as was mine. Swept away as if it had little significance, as if it didn’t take excited planning, precious time, prodigious labor, and, yes, considerable love to build.

The Kamikaze Squirrel has since moved on with his life. I, too, have moved on with mine.