BOB KORNEGAY: Short-lived squirrel sympathy

I was sitting on a rock in the stream cleaning some trout after a good morning’s fishing. Dappled sunlight danced through the trees and the cool shade was delightful. All was right with the world.

As I performed my fish-cleaning task and dreamed of grilled rainbows and steamed potatoes, my eyes took in the pristine high-country surroundings. Late-blooming mountain laurel added pink highlights to a verdant backdrop of hemlock and white pine. Tiny water droplets hung suspended in mist above cascading rivulets flowing between moss-covered boulders. A gray squirrel played in the treetops above me.

I don’t know why my attention homed in on the squirrel, but I began watching him with undivided concentration. He carried a tiny green apple in his mouth, a morsel he no doubt planned to carry to some safe spot for his breakfast. The bushytail found a long limb extending over the water and proceeded to cross the creek, about 30 feet above my head.

The limb proved a bad route choice. Dead, it gave way with a loud snap just as the squirrel reached a point about halfway to the other side of the stream. The branch, squirrel and all, obeyed gravity and plummeted downward, landing with a splash. I don’t speak squirrel, but this one had a definite “cussing” look in his eyes as the limb gave way.

The waterlogged rodent floated on the surface for a moment as if dead. When he gathered himself, he swam for the bank in panic. Squirrels aren’t accomplished swimmers. The sight was quite amusing.

Then it hit me. How insensitive my laughing. Squirrels, after all, are one of Nature’s hapless, hard-luck critters. I began to imagine this one’s day from the time he first climbed out of bed.

Emerging from his leafy nest, which had nearly disintegrated in the previous night’s wind storm, he climbed sleepily down the tree trunk toward the ground. Halfway down, a bigger squirrel attacked and chased him round and round the tree, clawing several hairs from his tail in the process. Winded, he made it to the roadside, where he climbed a fence post and rose to full height on his hind legs. Fortunately, the red-tailed hawk was either nearsighted or suffering from a hangover. It missed. Barely. The squirrel lost a few more hairs and a shred of head skin.

Escaping across the road, he was too panicked to notice Merle Goodman’s oncoming log truck. Close call. The turbulence from the rapidly turning wheels blew him into the ditch, where he was hit full in the face by a stream of tobacco juice Merle had just that moment expectorated out the driver’s-side window.

Heading for the creek, he crossed a valley farmyard, where a grinning barefoot boy narrowly missed gunning him down with a homemade slingshot as he snitched that little green apple from a tree in the small orchard. All in all, a pretty routine morning. Such is a day in the life of a squirrel.

Then, bless his squirrely little heart, he makes it to the creek bank, climbs a tree, starts across, and crashes headlong into the water below. This he could not have possibly figured upon. Poor little guy lost his apple and his dignity, only to be laughed at by a fat two-legged critter sitting on a rock.

I left the creek that day harboring a whole new understanding (tempered with no small measure of sympathy) of squirrels and their daily fight for survival. Maybe, I thought, I am a changed man. Come next season, perhaps I’ll let the .22 just gather dust behind the closet door.

Then came images of squirrel and gravy, squirrel and dumplings, fried squirrel quarters, and fricassee. My mouth began watering over thoughts of squirrel stew and fried cornbread.

Sorry, squirrel. Nice try. But it ain’t gonna work.