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What are the squirrels saying about you?
Nov. 27th, 2005 12:37 amThe squirrels don't hate you; they talk about everyone. Kim Barlow, "Wilderness Tips"
When I was really little, my Dad found a rodent in the basement, sitting there, staring at him. In the dimness, he couldn't tell what it was, so he thought it might be a rat. When he approached it and it didn't run away, he thought it might be rabid. He had his toolbox handy, so he tapped it on the head with a hammer. When he brought the corpse into the light upstairs, he discovered that it wasn't a rat, but a flying squirrel. Flying squirrels weren't common in Northern Ontario, so the first one I ever saw was that one, dead.
When we went camping, there were a lot of squirrels and chipmunks. The chipmunks were adorable and friendly creatures; the ones in our regular campsite in our favourite provincial park were quite accustomed to people and they would run into the campsite to retrieve peanuts that we would leave out for them. They would even climb on to your lap to get a peanut, if you sat still enough. My Dad had that trick mastered; he could be so stationary and patient. My sister and I were still too young for that kind of Zen stillness.
The squirrels were never friendly like the chipmunks. They would yell from the trees as we walked past. We were trespassers in their woods and they didn't want to share. They would steal any food left out unsupervised, but they refused to search for peanuts for our entertainment. They were too proud to be our clowns. And they were gossips, always chattering. The chipmunks saved their chatter for important things, like when they couldn't get the peanut out of the handle of the jump rope.
I saw a living flying squirrel years later, while we were camping in Southern Ontario. They are graceful creatures, but not like birds. They are like trapeze artists, swooping through the air, trusting that the branch at the other end will be there and will hold them.
I saw a falling squirrel once. In all my years of camping, and in all my parents' years of camping, none of us had ever seen a squirrel miss a branch no matter how fast it was running and jumping. One day, walking along the side of the road in a provincial park, a squirrel fell to the road not more then three feet in front of us. There was no warning but the sound of branches shaking briefly but vigerously. We hardly had time to wonder if it was OK before it took off running; say what you want about them, but squirrels recover quickly.
We moved to British Columbia and I started working in the summer, so I didn't go camping as often. There were city squirrels, fluffy grey ones, but they kept their distance and didn't even gossip much.
Then I met the infamous squirrels of the University of British Columbia. Easy sources of junk food and almost no predators (not even many barking dogs or bossy cats to try to keep them in line), plus, perhaps, some illicit breeding experiments, has resulted in squirrels that are audacious and bossy. They seem quite sure that students are there primarily to provide them with food. My first warning that they were a different gang then the annoyed but ultimately helpless creatures I was used was noticing that every garbage can on campus had a squirrel-sized hole chewed through the thick plastic doors.
I really realised how tough they were one beautiful afternoon. A young woman was carelessly reading her textbook while eating a sandwich on the lawn behind the Student Union Building. A squirrel noticed her split attention, and sprinted up while she was turning a page. Almost without pausing, it stole her leftover sandwich out of her hand and ran away.
They haven't changed since I've left. If anything, they've gotten more brassy. My sister recently had to hand her apple core to a UBC squirrel - it demanded that she do so rather then put it in the garbage can.
The squirrels talk about you to your face here. It makes me nostalgic for being yelled at and gossiped about from the trees.
When I was really little, my Dad found a rodent in the basement, sitting there, staring at him. In the dimness, he couldn't tell what it was, so he thought it might be a rat. When he approached it and it didn't run away, he thought it might be rabid. He had his toolbox handy, so he tapped it on the head with a hammer. When he brought the corpse into the light upstairs, he discovered that it wasn't a rat, but a flying squirrel. Flying squirrels weren't common in Northern Ontario, so the first one I ever saw was that one, dead.
When we went camping, there were a lot of squirrels and chipmunks. The chipmunks were adorable and friendly creatures; the ones in our regular campsite in our favourite provincial park were quite accustomed to people and they would run into the campsite to retrieve peanuts that we would leave out for them. They would even climb on to your lap to get a peanut, if you sat still enough. My Dad had that trick mastered; he could be so stationary and patient. My sister and I were still too young for that kind of Zen stillness.
The squirrels were never friendly like the chipmunks. They would yell from the trees as we walked past. We were trespassers in their woods and they didn't want to share. They would steal any food left out unsupervised, but they refused to search for peanuts for our entertainment. They were too proud to be our clowns. And they were gossips, always chattering. The chipmunks saved their chatter for important things, like when they couldn't get the peanut out of the handle of the jump rope.
I saw a living flying squirrel years later, while we were camping in Southern Ontario. They are graceful creatures, but not like birds. They are like trapeze artists, swooping through the air, trusting that the branch at the other end will be there and will hold them.
I saw a falling squirrel once. In all my years of camping, and in all my parents' years of camping, none of us had ever seen a squirrel miss a branch no matter how fast it was running and jumping. One day, walking along the side of the road in a provincial park, a squirrel fell to the road not more then three feet in front of us. There was no warning but the sound of branches shaking briefly but vigerously. We hardly had time to wonder if it was OK before it took off running; say what you want about them, but squirrels recover quickly.
We moved to British Columbia and I started working in the summer, so I didn't go camping as often. There were city squirrels, fluffy grey ones, but they kept their distance and didn't even gossip much.
Then I met the infamous squirrels of the University of British Columbia. Easy sources of junk food and almost no predators (not even many barking dogs or bossy cats to try to keep them in line), plus, perhaps, some illicit breeding experiments, has resulted in squirrels that are audacious and bossy. They seem quite sure that students are there primarily to provide them with food. My first warning that they were a different gang then the annoyed but ultimately helpless creatures I was used was noticing that every garbage can on campus had a squirrel-sized hole chewed through the thick plastic doors.
I really realised how tough they were one beautiful afternoon. A young woman was carelessly reading her textbook while eating a sandwich on the lawn behind the Student Union Building. A squirrel noticed her split attention, and sprinted up while she was turning a page. Almost without pausing, it stole her leftover sandwich out of her hand and ran away.
They haven't changed since I've left. If anything, they've gotten more brassy. My sister recently had to hand her apple core to a UBC squirrel - it demanded that she do so rather then put it in the garbage can.
The squirrels talk about you to your face here. It makes me nostalgic for being yelled at and gossiped about from the trees.
