The squirrels got peanut butter sandwiches today.
It's bitter cold and they are looking a little skinny. "Lucky", the one with only a nub for a tail, is always first on the scene in the early morning and she reminds me, as she sits atop the empty bird feeder 30 feet from my kitchen window, that it's time to eat.
I spread pb on white bread and cut the pieces into squares. Four pieces of bread makes 18 squirrel sandwiches. Keeping the cat and the min pin at bay, I open the door to head outside in my bare feet slipped into old army green suede clogs, kept side by side on a mat for such journeys, and I make my way to the back of the yard near the fence line. I breathe ice through my nostrils and hug one armpit, my bare fingers pressed against my shabbily dressed body. My other hand holds breakfast for my backyard visitors. I make clucking sounds with my tongue. "Lucky" watches me from a tree branch about 10 feet from the ground where I am setting out half of the sandwiches. It's a good time to thank God and the universe for all the comforts I have in this life. I'd last about an hour in this outdoor wasteland of an icebox if I were suddenly turned into a squirrel.
"Leonardo", "Donatello" and "Michelangelo", the aggressive trio, come a little later in the morning. They chase "Lucky" around the tall pine trees so fast that their bodies and tails turn into swirly ashen barber poles from where I stand. I drink my java and watch their antics. I am glad "Lucky" is such an early bird...or early squirrel, as it may be. The trio repeatedly tag team and eventually chase her off as they forage for whatever is on the menu, their little gray hands moving in rapid circles as they either devour or cheek-pack their sustenance. They remind me of Scrooge counting money.
Then there's "Bart" who is dark as night and, I'm guessing, a baby summer squirrel from last year. He showed up for the first time in the late fall, inky black, super tiny and fluffier than most of my regular beady-eyed crew. At first all he could do was run and hide from the Italian gang but now he bravely tries to hold his own. I usually put his feast about 15 feet away from the others so he can eat in peace. Some days he makes it in time, other days he sniffs the ground where it was and sits on his haunches tentatively scanning the perimeter of the yard. I try not to feed him twice because I need him to figure out when to show up and meet his own needs.
I collect uncarved, discarded pumpkins from the roadside in early November to split and use as weekly treats for the hunter-gatherers. I always hope they can store the seeds someplace but mostly they seem to bury them and then I get weirdly placed pumpkin plants in the summertime; they grow about an inch tall until they are mowed over by hubs cutting the grass. Offering the pumpkins as early winter food is a useful exercise until everything starts freezing. I can see faded orange iced over pumpkin guts back there. "Bart" digs for them sometimes.
They interact like people. I make up stories in my head as I watch them. "Lucky" is a traumatized loner but she keeps on coming back knowing there is usually something special here for her. The trio has consistent companionship. Their meanness is only a survival instinct. Members of a kind of rodent mafia, I don't hold it against them. "Bart", poor little guy...still learning how to find his food and defend himself. I root for him daily.
I splurged and bought a bag of walnuts for my oatmeal at the grocery store on Friday. However, I saw the forecast this morning and snow is coming, so it will get relegated and I will eat my Quaker cereal plain this week.
My friend Amy told me that a member of her family crafts little wooden picnic tables that nail onto the trees. I sip my coffee and wonder what the woodworker's squirrels are named.
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