Most of the time I am pretty happy being single. As a writer I can work until the wee hours and no one complains. I can read in bed with copious amounts of moisturizer on my feet and no one blanches in disdain, obviously not appreciating the beauty of a smooth instep. Well, the exception might be that creepy foot fetishist, Tanner from "The Bachelorette" who would be way too into it. In general it's a pretty happy life, but there are times a guy could come in handy.
Yesterday I came home from doing errands and as I pulled into my driveway I saw a squirrel lying across my driveway. I pulled into the garage and cautiously walked out, wanting to make sure he wasn't just laying there in wait, having planned the perfectly orchestrated take down of a human wanting to throw a big squirrel rave in my house. When I observed it wasn't an obvious threat I got closer and bent over to get a closer look. There were no obvious wounds, no blood, but it appeared to be dead. This was tough for me because oddly enough, I love squirrels, I think they're awfully cute.
"I so wish I had a husband to take care of this," I muttered to myself as I went to get a shovel. When I tried to scoop up the the poor thing (with a snow shovel no less) I thought I saw her head move and jumped back, startled. As I crouched down close to her, I saw she was still breathing. (I assumed it was a female having run herself ragged for her children)
I ran in and called Wildcare, a group that rescues animals. The volunteer gave me instructions on how to get her to them, but I was scared. I pictured getting this critter in a box, then into my car, and as I drove along it leaping on to my head a la Clark Griswald. As I stood there talking to to Lila at Wildcare, I noticed that the squirrel's eyes had closed. Closer examination showed she'd stopped breathing. I told Lila, and we hung up.
I put an umbrella next to her sheltering from the sun, hoping she'd somehow revive. Within just minutes though I could tell her body had stiffened.
Trading the scoopy snow shovel for a garden one, I buried her in my yard.
As I put away the shovel I thought back to the years when I had a husband to do those things, and then, when I was no longer married, having sons who took care of the creepy crawly stuff. Now that I have to handle all things icky and non by myself, I see that whether it's a dead squirrel, a hinky toaster or a really scary thunderstorm in the middle of the night I really am okay.
It's nice to know I can bury a squirrel, check the oil in my car and put the screens in the windows come summer, but as old fashioned as it may sound, sometimes it might be kind of nice to not have to.
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