It is ALIVE!!!

I have Cockatiels. I didn't really want Cockatiels but a friend had a pair that had been abused and the birds needed a "temporary" home. That was almost three years ago. Brighton and Elliott will never be friendly birds. They have no reason to trust me, but they have shared their passions and now I have FOUR of their progeny--all raised by me. Brighton and Elliott are good at producing lovely little fertile eggs but are lousy parents.

They sit for a week or so and then start kicking those little eggs around. I've learned how to be a passible bird mama. The kids at school have watched the babies grow from tiny featherless monsters into little birds. I really need to stop saving every egg Elliott drops.

BUT--a week ago I was on the back porch--a collect-all for cages, tools and bins. Brighton and Elliott were enjoying some fly time on a warm fall afternoon. Apparently the squirrels, who like scamming nuts at the back door, had invaded their cage and Elliott dropped another egg right where she stood yelling at the squirrels to bugger off. When I picked up the little egg it was still warm--a tiny pinkish package that lay in the palm of my hand waiting for me to decide weather or not I'd chuck it into the garden out back. I took it in and dug out the incubator. I was pretty sure I knew someone who would really like to have a little bird--providing it survived. The sweet bird they adored was injured in a freak accident and they knew a bird wouldn't be happy unable to walk or fly. "Millett" went to her last sleep very much loved.

So tonight I candled that little egg and there's somebody home--a tiny speck dancing in front of the bright light that invaded it's shell. In two weeks it will hatch--a bizarre looking bit of fluff that wants to eat every two hours from dawn to dusk. The kids at school will watch a miracle and when that little bird is old enough, it will go to a loving family for the twenty or so years of it's natural life span.

I never stop being amazed at the life that pulses in an egg. You can feel it in your hand. That dancing speck will peep when it's ready to hatch. Even now it's just so ALIVE! 

Little Man

He was never supposed to be tame. He was supposed to be one of many release squirrels given a chance at life. I'm honored he chose to be my friend.

Little Man came to me a year ago--a lost baby found by a compassionate family. He was maybe eight or nine weeks old--looked like a mini squirrel--but too young to survive a winter on his own without mama. Little Man wasn't particularly friendly--no reason for him to be, but he wasn't mean either. He had a three level cage--big enough to pass a winter in--and a friend right next door in another big cage. He was a nice boy--a little bitey if you got too close to his nest cube--but not mean. He was fine with invasion of his territory to leave veggies or rodent blocks--and he would very gladly take a nut if offered. He permitted his cage to be cleaned as long as his nest wasn't invaded. I expected for him to high-tail it out the door when spring finally showed up. In early March he was moved to the big cage (gotta get those muscles in shape to climb trees) and in early April he got the run of the room and the portal to the great outdoors opened. The two girls who passed the winter with him left nothing but dust moats hanging in the air as they streaked out the portal. Little Man stayed. 

As April warmed up and May put buds and flowers on trees and bushes, Little Man preferred lounging on top of the big cage to hanging out in the trees out back. It was looking like he wasn't planning on moving but eventually the warm breezes blowing through the window lured him out onto the bridge to the back porch railing and he was free. Time passed and by the time summer hit he was out and about--but after a few weeks I'd have a feeling I wasn't alone in that room at night and sure-nuff--Little Man was in his nest cube with his stuffed animal and his fleece blankees in air conditioned comfort. 

A blistering summer finally cooled to a warm fall and Little Man came home with what looked like a bad cut. It was a Bot warble right under his arm and he chewed at it until it bled. If he had killed it, it would have killed him. Damn things don't rot nice. The vets at Lakeside got rid of that nasty--and several more I hadn't even noticed and the poor boy came home with stitches all over and was captive for two weeks--caged until those stitches could come out. 

Little Man is free again and since I opened the door to the capture cage I transported him to the vets in, he's been outside. He's come in for a snack and to check out his nest cube, but is sleeping outside these days. Since he started sleeping in, I've given him goodnight lovies and skritches and he'd roll over so I could get to his tummy or lift his little arms so a favored spot would get attention. He's happy to have his face rubbed by about everybody. 

I don't know if his release after surgery will be permanent or if he'll come back to sleep after he's played out for awhile. I kinda hope so. I see him out with his friend or begging for a nut at the back door and I'm happy he's free, but at night I miss putting my hand in his cube and being greeted by a little sleepy face wanting to be loved on. I'm honored he chose to be my friend and it's up to him where he lives. Just be careful Little Man. Watch out for hawks. Stay out of the street. Don't go near dogs or cats. And remember that you're always welcome to come in for a sleep over.

My day starts with SQUIRRELS!

My day starts with squirrels when I open the shed door and hear the girls "bwaaaabwaaaabwaaaaaa," translated "let me OUT!" There's sometimes a small gray Buddha, little hands tucked up against her ample belly, waiting for breakfast. There may be little more than the panting of a huge Muscovy duck and dust motes floating in the shaft of sunlight that cuts the gloom inside. But by the time I've opened the door to the condo--the home of my aging chickens-- the "tiktiktik" scurrying sounds from the rafters of the shed have materialized into a line of soft gray robed monks lined up on top of the pen little paws folded as if around begging bowls. The squirrels are here. They are the babies I raised last summer from tiny thumb sized infants. Some are big chunky guys, some are little bitches who boss the others around. Some are gentle creatures, shy with the other squirrels but friendly and lovey with me, eager for skritches and pets. They are all my friends, and even though they've been "free" since last October, they stay close to my unending delight, having moved from the release cage into the sanctuary of the shed.

They tend to wait until after breakfast ( a gourmet salad prepared fresh each morning) to go about their business--which includes banging on the back door for nuts. I see them hurtling themselves from tree to tree throughout the day. On rainy, snowy or nasty days, they keep to the safe dry nests they've built in the rafters of the shed. On freezing cold nights they pile up in the insulated pouch hanging from a wall over the condo--all five stuffed inside--tight fit, but warm. When I close the door to the shed in the evening I count noses as I dole out treats, terrified that somebody will be missing. Later I do a late shed check when I take the boy possums their dinner.

Spring is here--I see the kinds of chasing that will eventually bring baby squirrels. The need to start families will replace the need for familiarity and the comfort of home. There will be more orphans coming and eventually they'll join the gene pool out back. The mama in me wants all my babies close--maybe not in the spare bedroom (I already have squirrels in there). But I'd be tickled if they stay in the neighborhood so I can keep an eye on them. I want my darlings safe, well fed, friendly. I want to be there for them if they get hurt (already happened once).

What I want doesn't mean a dadburn thing to them. They're squirrels. They are my friends by THEIR choice. They will do what they will do as nature tells them. I'm on the outside and by their grace touch a world of hurtling through trees, basking in leaf dappled sunlight on a branch 40-feet up, hanging by my ankles to snack on a piece of pecan or racing straight up a tree.

The squirrels are teaching me some really important lessons I never learned in school, church, meditation or from books. They've taught how glorious it is to enjoy day to day survival. They do to the fullest. They're teaching me to be careful (life depends on it) but not to fear. I'm learning that opening your heart to another creature is a high not to be equaled. I might add here that everybody who isn't mentally deranged opens his or her heart to someone--or thing. I reckon it's about the most satisfying thing people do. Thing is, folks generally expect some sort of payback. Squirrels don't. A squirrel accepts you--or doesn't. I love my squirrels. They ACCEPT me. It's a more-than-fair trade--'specially since their acceptance in most cases is more profound, more genuine and more sincere than human love (that's all too often pretty darned shallow and self-serving).

 I start my day with squirrels. I start my day with life. I start my day with love. Love is good. Thanks squirrels!

NINJA Squirrels

I am Ninja! I need tribute!

They were a week old--max: tiny little babies the size of my thumb (and I have small thumbs) that had just a blush of the gray coat they would eventually have. They were a pile of gummy squirrels--soft, moist little bodies that needed a mama. I never embraced anything as wholeheartedly as I did those babies. They needed round the clock feeding--a half-milliliter of formula nursed through a tiny tiny nipple; help peeing and pooping; little faces cleaned and their bed changed often. All six fit into a childs sock. My world orbited around a new star--six tiny squirrels

Fast forward to October. Six fat craziacs were ready to go OUT and be squirrels. The brand spanking new release cage was ready for business and out they went. They were supposed to stay in the cage over the winter--protected from the neighborhood hawk and well fed through the cold months. Trouble is, squirrels are smart and the first chance they got, they were FREE! Out in the big scary winter world.

It was a warm fall and early winter was mild. It's cold now. The babies look like gray footballs--fat and furred. They've set up housekeeping in the shed. They have a family pouch they can all pile into and on the coldest nights they sleep toasty warm. They're spoiled rolly-poly friendly squirrels who  tend to sleep until breakfast is served when I go to let my chickens and big ol' duck out. They expect a gourmet breakfast--veggies, avocado, some tomato or pieces of orange, sunflower seeds-- every morning and after gorging themselves they are considerate enough to share the bounty with the yard squirrels.They are happy to greet any visitors to the backyard and enjoy a skritch or a kiss on a fuzzy nose. The little guys--well--BIG guys-- throw themselves against the glass of  the back door knowing somebody will open it and invite them in to help themselves to the bounty of the nut pitcher that sits just inside. They aren't pets but they're sweet little friends-- AND they are ninjas.

Like any proper ninja they lead ordinary lives in the daytime--going about their squirrley business in the guise of your average, if slightly portly, gray squirrels.

BUT!

In the dark of night when I take dinners to Gordo and Chewy (possums) the ninjas, under the cover of darkness, make their move. You hear them first--"tiktiktik"--"tiktiktik"-- quiet. It's a sound that could be imagination--or  a branch tapping the side of the shed. In the dusk of the neighbor's night light the yard is mostly shadows. Frost sparkles. The outline of a wattle fence marks where in the spring there will be growing things. There's the sound of possums munching. For a minute the walk back to the house looks long and a little intimidating. My heavy barn coat doesn't feel warm enough. Then THUMP! Aggggh! The ninjas strike! Ninja knives dig into my coat and ninja noses snuffle into my pockets looking for the nuts they know will be there. Don't go out to the shed at night without a tribute.

Beware the Ninja squirrels.

Padawan Ninjas