We lived close to nature, dependent on weather for vegetables, relying on
animal reproduction for meat. Sometimes the distinction between pet and
dinner was thin. Often the distinction between pet and pest was thinner.
Cordell, whose mental acuity was short of sterling, took a
shine to Ivy. My ever present envy of
Ivy, who was prettier and more popular than I, did not extend to Cordell and
his attention to her. Cordell in his
attempt at blatant masculinity shot a squirrel, whose death left a nest of baby
squirrels. He took it on himself to rescue the babies and to pedal them to
neighbors who would raise them to squirrel adulthood. Mommie reluctantly permitted Ivy to take one.
Ivy used her doll’s bottle to feed the baby squirrel who
grew at an amazing pace. The distinction between pet and pest was quickly apparent.
Ivy’s squirrel became master of the house, crawling under bed covers, raiding
the food pantry and climbing the curtains with gymnastic agility. Mommie daily
threatened to kill the little pest if he
did not learn how to behave.
How does a squirrel behave? Except like a squirrel? Which he did. The final act—the act that did him
in— the act which was ordained by his squirrel-hood—came. He not only at will climbed the curtains, but
he sat on the curtain rod and nibbled at the curtains. Without any discussion
of the situation, without any concern for the squirrel’s future, Mommie removed him from the house and left him
to whatever fate might befall him.
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