Facing reality - squirrel edition

Scratch. Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.

Saturday morning, as I entered the kitchen, what sounded like a cat digging in the litter box disoriented me. The cat box was in the basement. This seemed to come from around the corner. Unless Denali was really going to town, there was no way I should have heard this sound. I shrugged my shoulders and set to work picking up breakfast dishes.

Clunk. Something fell somewhere inside the home in which I was alone.

I peeked out onto the three-season porch extending from the kitchen, then took another look. Huh? There it sat, on the wrong side of the window. Its plumed tail ticked rhythmically, conveying its displeasure.

Squirrrrrrrrel!

*#$@!!! This plump little guy must have been pretty adventurous and thorough to find the portal, a small rip in the screen door. I watched him hop onto the dining table, then onto the floor where he knocked over the recycling, as he frantically searched for an exit. His terrified - or were they incensed - beady black eyes momentarily met mine.

"We're going to get you out of here, little guy," I said, mostly to calm myself and prevent a hysterical laughing fit. I've seen Christmas Vacation too many times, and my inner voice started spewing lines. "Where's Eddy, he usually eats these things?"

Truly, the fix was easy. I waited until he moved to the far end of the porch, cracked the kitchen door and started to reach for the door to the outside ... He darted to the floor. Shit. Mission aborted. What if he dashed into the house? Then I'd have a real problem. I could go around back to open the door, but what if he flew right at me and went for the jugular? What if I slipped down the icy stairs as I ran, only to knock my head and suffer a brain injury. Yes, too many movies. Pair that hyperactive imagination, a recent concussion, some brutal head-ice contact a few years back, and a lifelong (and abnormally strong) fear of rabies, and you see why this incident turned me into a quivering nut job.

The flashbacks began. About a month ago, a friend and I took a night mountain bike ride. A large, bumbling raccoon ran up the path toward us before shimmying up the nearest tree. She continued riding. I hit the breaks so hard I nearly did an endo.

"Um," I almost whispered. "I'm afraid of the raccoon."

Correction: Part of me wanted to snuggle with the raccoon in all his cuddly, fatty cuteness. What I feared, however, as I looked at his wide, charcoal eyes staring back at me and his finger-like claws clinging to the tree, was that I might ride past only to have a this blood-thirsty (and certainly rabid) creature leap onto my back and tear at me with his fangs and talons. He was probably a she ready to protect her babies at any cost. I gave him a wide berth as I walked my bike through the woods. By that time, he was watching us cautiously from the tree top, probably wondering what we were doing tearing through the woods with headlights on our helmets on Friday night, in Minnesota, in November. 

"You don't like raccoons?" my riding companion seemed to be reevaluating our friendship.

"I like raccoons. In pictures. I don't like rabies."

My mother's stray-animal warnings and safety-vigilant public schooling meant growing up convinced all animals have rabies. As an adult, experience has taught me that even the sweetest animals will try to kill you if they have people to babies nearby. We're not talking about bears or anything exotic. Ask me about the bird incident, or the cow incident, or the deer incident.

I thought about the photo of grizzly bear tracks that came across my twitter feed that morning and realized my urban "wildlife" problems were pathetic. I follow a woman who lives in Alaska and whose adventures cross paths with real animals. The fact that I am a city slicker no matter how much I love the outdoors stings my pride. It also amuses me.

I giggled as I pulled out my iPhone to capture the moment. I wanted my mother. Not to save me, but to share this experience. We'd laugh at this ridiculousness and work ourselves into breathless, slap-happy tears as we recounted that Christmas Vacation squirrel scene line for line. But she'd never get here in time.

Of course, my husband, Chris, could be relied upon. He was only three blocks away helping our friend with a bathroom remodel. I dialed and redialed his cell. No answer. I called our friend's land line. Chris picked up.

"Yeees?"

"There's a squirrel," I snorted. "On the back porch. He's going nuts; I feel bad."

Oops. I hadn't meant to be punny. I explained my liberation plan and its many problems.

"Just go around the back and prop open the door," he patiently instructed.

"But what if it flies out and bites me?"

"So, you want it to fly out and bite me instead?" he asked. Clearly, I was not getting the sympathy I needed and would be facing this alone.

"Fine. I'll call you when I leave for my rabies shots."

I pulled on my hat, jacket, and boots. Trotted defiantly around the back, all the while cursing myself and Chris for not salting the walkway.

"Breathe, Jenifer, breathe,"I coached myself as I walked just far enough up the stairs to pull the door open. I propped it ajar with a rubber mat, then tore off. Back inside the house, I peered out to find the little guy creeping ever-so-apprehensively toward freedom. Momentarily, he froze at the threshold.

"Dude. Get out there!" I urged. "It's over!"

He scuttled onto the stairs, then dashed across the snowy yard to the lilac bush. I pulled the door shut, examined the hole, and hoped he didn't come back with any friends. Shame followed my relief.

"Worked up over a squirrel, Jen? Really?"

I aspire to be the West Virginia mountain momma John Denver sings about. But, I reluctantly admit my reality more closely resembles Billy Joel's Uptown Girl.