Don't Feed the Wildlife

When squirrel moved into our house, I knew it was wrong. Your elders and the internet tell you THEY MUST BE REMOVED. Or else: chewed-through wires! Fires! Hantavirus! Loss of community standing! Erosion of self-respect!

You’ll never get rid of them, they will multiply, and you will be a rodent slumlord the tenants know has absolutely no power to evict them, chittering giggles behind their razor-sharp tree-climbing claws at you from behind the walls with the contemptuous glee of teenaged vandals until they penetrate the inner walls of your sanctuary while you’re sleeping and you wake up screaming while a whole gang of them runs riot over your body wearing tiny studded leather jackets and shit-poisoned switchblades on every long uncivilized finger!

The neighbors will call the county as the creatures whittle the wood of your human shelter down around you with their endlessly-growing big front teeth, and you’ll be issued fines from the Department of Natural Resources, the City, the PETA, and The Neighborhood Watch Committee for Decently Subdued Neutral House-Paint Colors, the last remnants of your home chewed down as they’re handing you the tickets leaving you with nothing but debt and a house-sized pile of hazardous plague-filled flea-infested sawdust ready to go up in flames!

That’s what I thought until I finally opened the little door to our under-the-eaves storage where I sometimes heard squirrel at twilight. I expected to be greeted by toxic piss-fumes and a huge mountain of little black turds, but instead I saw one tuft of pink insulation (it probably hurt squirrel more than me when they tore into it), no poop-pellets to speak of, and many feet of pristine, untouched webcam and ethernet cables. And then I finally read something from the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife telling me something nobody else on the internet ever would: “You may choose to let a squirrel stay if it isn’t posing a problem.”

It turns out worrying about squirrels making you sick is also pretty much unwarranted hysteria; the WDFW says, “tree squirrels might carry diseases that could affect humans, but, as a practical matter, instances where squirrels have transmitted disease to humans are rare.”

So when forest-fire summer smoke season and a heatwave converged, I broke the rules; I put out water for the birds. And okay, yes, for squirrel. It just seemed cruel not to. It was the first time I ever intentionally made contributions for the basic needs of wildlife; I was amazed at how quickly so many little creatures discovered it, made use of it, and kept coming back for more.

Since then, the bowls have stayed out. I refresh the water at least once a day. The raccoons knock them over now at night to get every last drop, and just a couple nights ago they stole the dog toy I bought & keep handy on the deck especially for Squirrel to play with. It’s funny how you always hear people telling you not to feed wild animals; nobody ever warns you not to let them access toys.

Maybe it doesn’t matter now; Squirrel moved out a week or two ago. She still comes back to visit … have a drink of water… see what’s up. I only notice her every few days now, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t there. Squirrel knows more about where I am at, where birds are at, where raccoons are at and dogs on leashes and feral cats and neighbors coming and going than I could possibly imagine. She is up in the highest trees, looking down and listening, and sometimes she is right there on the deck watching me and I don’t even notice her until she scampers over to the water bowl.

I keep wondering why she left. Sad when she doesn’t see me walking back from the mailbox and run to greet me on the back deck at the water bowl. I keep meaning to wake up early and just sit at the back door and wait quietly so I don’t miss her if she comes when it’s coolest and just starting to get light. But I’m too lazy.

I imagine getting the raccoons a kiddy pool and more toys and putting up nightvision cams to enjoy their backyard shenanigans. I wonder if she is in a tree across from our bedroom window, listening to our laughter and the same TV shows but from a muted distance, happy she’s not hearing our raucous human noise on the other side of the wall hours after the sky gets dark when she’s trying to get some sleep. Happy she is in a tree, seeing everything from the canopy.