Every afternoon, at five o'clock

Mother, challenger, victor

I’m chatting with my mother on the phone, as I do every afternoon at five o’clock, when I see a cat levitate onto the deck like a Ninja, eyes fixed on something over her shoulder, bottlebrush tail.

I pop my head outside at the final nanosecond of impact and see the essence of something small and furry dart around the corner of the house. Ten feet away, the silver-white underbelly of a substantial black rat snake surfaces from the grass like windblown mylar and nearby, a pop-eyed baby squirrel tip-taps tiny feet anxiously. I can only assume they’ve all tumbled from the maple tree following a failed nest raid.

My snake-whisperer husband is on the scene now, and I’m grateful he’s home. Mom, no longer as sharp as she once was, can’t quite follow what I’m describing, so I rush my goodbyes, promising to talk to her again tomorrow.

My partner and I get to work. Triage, step one: Separate the baby from his would-be foes. We shut our cats in the house and keep an eye on the snake, who appears to have no further interest in this particular meal.

[NB: If you have a snake allergy, this is your chance to throw a tissue over your eyes. There’s only one picture. You can scroll past it quickly. Squint, too, if that helps.]

🙀

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🐍

Instinctively, the little squirrel takes to the tree but whether from fear, exhaustion, or the limitations of his size, he makes it up only a few feet before stalling out. As if he’s not already been through enough, his luck plummets again when his high-pitched squeaks attract the neighbor’s cat, who Usain Bolts it across the lawn.

A certain someone is all “Hey, that’s nature,” and for a moment or two the farmer in me steps forward. The world can be harsh. Squirrels wreak havoc on my gardens. Darned if today’s Wild Kingdom isn’t turning out to be a gut churner. But, no. I’m done dithering. We’re committed. We have to give this wee, odds-defying critter a fighting chance.

Triage, step two: Elevate the baby to a position of relative safety. With a plank of wood, gentle nudges, and no small amount of cheerleading, we coax the little guy up the trunk, inch by inch. I know that an injury or fall is a probable outcome, but I can’t think about that. I hold my breath with every boost and squinch the uncertainty into my brow.

At last, success. Baby is now 18 feet up in a welcoming crook, where he can sit rather than cling, and where roving felines will be disinclined to put in the effort to reach him.

But he’s still three stories away from home!

By now, even I have to admit that we humans have done all we can. I retreat to the house, feeling like I need a transfusion from blood loss to mosquitoes.

To my surprise, mama squirrel appears within minutes. She spots her charge but immobilizes when she sees our cats, newly released from captivity and lounging lazily on the deck. I round them up a second time, back myself into the doorway, and watch in hopeful anticipation as she resumes her mission.

Maneuvering him deftly for a proper grip, she flips him over and clamps a rear leg in her mouth, his tiny foot offering a parting wave. Seconds later, she spirits the little fellow back to the nest.

I marvel at her technique, feeling the swell of something wonderful and familiar. Connection? Pride? Reciprocity? I don’t need to label it, but I know it is rooted in our shared protective instincts—mother, challenger, victor.

Once more that evening, I see mama make her way down to eye-level where she pauses, clutching the dusk-tinged bark of the maple tree, and aims her gaze at the house. Maybe she is on watch for predators. Maybe she is there to express her gratitude. 

I tell her to be careful and wish her well.

Five months later, my mother will find her way to a place beyond the reach of phone calls, aging bodies, and yearning. For the longest time, I’ll think of her every afternoon, at 5 o’clock. Think of her, of home—mother, challenger, victor.

~Elizabeth