If squirrel invasion will be the norm for every January, I'm outta here. I don't ever want to hear anything crying like that injured squirrel in the ceiling. We couldn't do anything to help it and it wouldn't leave through the numerous exits they created. I hope they're gone now. I'm tired of my hardening my heart to such piteous cries. I'm not gentle like my mother. I am relearning things I once instinctively knew. She would have coaxed the critters outside somehow. I recall one time we saw a man deliberately aim his car at a little black squirrel. The squirrel was flipped through the air and landed near the curb on the median. I felt sick to my stomach. Ma, however, slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car. She ran across traffic, forcing everyone to slow down and picked up the squirrel. She cradled it in her arms. When she made it back to where I had parked the car, the little squirrel was perfectly still. If it wasn't for its rapid breathing, I would have thought it dead. She said it was in shock. It had injured it's thumb. She soothed it and calmed it down so much so it nearly fell asleep. She kept talking to it. A truck shot past us, jarring the squirrel awake. It lept from her arms and ran up a nearby tree. It chittered at her once it reached the branches. She was like that with all animals. They listened to her or came just to visit her. Some moved in, but they were never a pest.
I wonder if I'll be that skilled with animals.