That's Not How You Wash A Squirrel: A collection of new essays and emails.
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“I can’t help your imagination. Don’t let soap get in his eyes.”
“I’m not going to get soap in his eyes.”
There’s a big drip right next to his left eye. He’ll go blind if he gets soap in his eyes and then he won’t be able to fend for himself.”
“Fend for himself? He’s receiving a sponge bath in a miniature Victorian claw-foot tub.”
“He seems to like it though.”
“Yes, see? Washing a squirrel isn’t rocket science.”
“I meant the tub, not the way you’re washing him.”
“What’s in the other box?”
“Oh, that? Just stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“A little dining table and chairs.”
Over the next few months, Squirrel grew bigger and the weather grew warmer. I moved his house outside to our covered porch and constructed a system of walkways from our deck to the large oak, allowing him to come and go as he pleased. Other squirrels lived in the oak, perhaps his brothers and sisters. He’d interact with them occasionally but it wasn’t a world he seemed to understand or crave and he always headed home after short visits. At this point, his house had two extensions, solar powered heating, and a pantry off the main corridor stocked with corn, seeds and pizza crusts. His main bedroom, with ample room for two should he meet a girl squirrel and invite her over, featured grass-cloth wallpaper, soft lighting, and regularly changed linen. The guest room wasn’t used much so became a kind of catchall room for the treadmill and various sporting equipment.
“His house is nicer than ours,” Holly commented, “If I could shrink down to his size, I’d move in.”
“That wouldn’t work. You’d have to stay in the guest room and it’s a bit messy at the moment. Besides, I don’t know how Squirrel would feel about having a houseguest. He likes his space.”
“You do realize that you’ve gone a bit insane with the whole thing, don’t you? I mean, I understand you love him but...”
“I don’t love him. He’s just a squirrel and that would be stupid. Wanting him to be happy and safe isn’t love, I simply have a call of duty.”
“Do you mean duty of care?”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Not really. You love him more than you love the dogs.”
“Well that’s a given.”
“I think you love the squirrel more than you love me.”
“Now you’re just being silly. I have a responsibility to protect Squirrel, he’s small and innocent while you’re...”
“Yes?”
“Capable of looking after yourself. Do you want to come for a drive to the hardware store?”
“What for?”
“Tiles for his pool.”
“You’re building a swimming pool for the squirrel?”
“It’s more of a splash pool. I’m not adding a diving board or anything.”
I didn’t end up building the splash pool that day. When Holly and I returned from the hardware store, Squirrel wasn’t in his house. I stood under the large oak puckering, squealing and grunting but he didn’t reply. Hours went by. He’d never stayed out for this length of time. What if he had ventured too far and got lost? What if a hawk had taken him? What if he was injured somewhere, possibly after bravely fighting off a hawk, and calling out for me weakly? We play-fought all the time and he was pretty good at it... he wouldn’t just let himself be carried off and ripped apart... I couldn’t stand the thought of that...
At the back of Carl’s property, adjoining ours, is a small ravine where Carl throws his lawn clippings, fallen branches and other assorted rubbish. I found Squirrel there. He was easily identifiable from the other dead squirrels. Even with his fur matted with blood from the .22 caliber bullet hole, I knew every marking.
Many years ago, when I was studying design, I shared a rental house with a guy named Daniel. We had a third housemate named Todd but he was rarely seen as he worked nightshift as a chicken boner for the local Ingham chicken-processing factory. Todd contributed little in the way of cleaning or groceries but a constant supply of free chicken made up for giblet covered overalls in the bathroom and taking food that wasn’t his.
“He’s eaten all the chips. Even the salt and vinegar ones. And look at this tub of margarine, I only bought that yesterday. It’s like he scoops it out by the handful.”
“How are we for chicken?”
“There’s about... seventy packets of breast and... forty packets of nuggets. We’re getting low on schnitzels though. I might leave him a note.”
Daniel and I were doing the same course, four years of study towards a bachelor of visual communication, at an Adelaide university. Both of us lived and breathed design at that time but Daniel was a lot better. Some people have an eye for design, Daniel felt it. The corporate identities he produced were world standard, his interface designs simplistically beautiful, and his grids a perfect balance of form, function and negative space. Projects that took me weeks to complete, took him days. I wasn’t jealous of his abilities; I fed off his enthusiasm and enjoyed his company. Work I submitted was better because of his influence.
Late in third-year, I overheard a private conversation between Daniel and one of our lecturers in which he was told, “At this point, I’m learning more from you than you are from me.” By mid-fourth year, several highly respected international branding agencies had offered him positions upon completion of his studies.
Daniel also had a girlfriend named Rebecca. She was studying art at a different school. You could tell when Rebecca stayed over as the house stank of patchouli. All art students wear patchouli as it’s a known fact that the oil is a magic repellant against criticism and having to get a real job. She was kind of annoying in the way that all art students are kind of annoying; dirty and poor. We had one of her paintings on the wall of our living area titled Self Portrait 28.
“It’s pretty big,” I commented when it was first hung.
“A large statement deserves a large canvas,” Rebecca explained.
“So, it’s you on a horse?”
“It’s an expression of joy, movement, and freedom.”
“Shouldn’t the horse be in motion then? It’s just standing there looking anything but joyful. Is it crying?”
“They’re tears of happiness. And the horse is in motion.”
“Its legs would be bent if it was in motion. They’re sticking straight down.”
“It’s jumping.”
“Straight up?”
“It’s easy to criticize.”
“Correct.”
“An inability to interpret art says a lot more about the viewer than the artist. It’s not my job to explain.”
“Granted. You weren’t overly helpful with the title though, you should have called it Rebecca’s Happy Hover Horse.”
Daniel and I often drove to classes together and, one afternoon following a cancelled seminar, drove home together early. As we entered the hallway, we heard the sound of people having sex from behind Todd’s closed bedroom door and chuckled quietly.
“Todd’s getting lucky,” Daniel whispered as we made our way into the kitchen, “Good for him. It sounds like she goes off.” He made coffee and we sat at the kitchen table flicking through copies of Desktop and MacUser magazines.
“Does it reek like a moldy basement in here?” I asked.
The noise from Todd’s room stopped. There was a thump and the bedroom door opened.
“Where are you going?” we heard Todd ask.
“I need to take a piss,” replied Rebecca, “I’ll be right back...” She froze, naked in the hallway, staring at Daniel and I.
“Grab the tub of margarine on your way back,” yelled Todd, “I want to fuck you in the bum. And see if Dan has bought any more chips.”
I left.
Daniel didn’t finish the university course. Instead, he ran over Todd with his car and set fire to Rebecca’s parents house. Apparently he’d only intended to set her car ablaze but the
flames travelled up a fence and into the roof of an attached garage containing canvas and paint supplies. The occupants escaped but their cat and two dogs burnt to death. Todd spent six months in hospital with a crushed pelvis and Daniel spent six years of a ten-year sentence in jail. Daniel sent me a friend request on Facebook a while back and I viewed his profile. He lives in a small suburb of Adelaide with his wife and four kids and works for a distribution company as a forklift driver.
I wanted to run Carl over with my car. I wanted to torch his house. I wanted to salt his veggie patch and take out an ad in the local classifieds offering cheap mowing services with his number listed. Carl was my chicken boner and dirty art student girlfriend. Perhaps it wasn’t the best example but I’m not going to go back and rewrite three whole pages. I could have written about the time my sister drew a voice bubble on my Ace Frehley poster saying, “I’m gay” and my retaliatory stabbing of her waterbed with a steak knife but having to spend your pocket money on a rubber repair kit is hardly the same as doing hard time. I did once spend three days in jail but that was just for unpaid parking fines. I didn’t get bummed or shanked so it’s hardly a tale of revenge and repercussion. It’s more a tale of playing chess with an old guy named Roger.
Not that I haven’t encountered my fair share of chicken boners and dirty art students over the years. I’ve known betrayal and deceit and each has born its own fantasies of retaliation. In my mind, I have extracted revenge of biblical proportions dozens of times. The kind of revenge where the body count rises as smoke slowly clears. The kind of revenge where I join a mountain-based monastery for several years and learn martial arts. The kind of revenge where there are no repercussions, just a thumping soundtrack that drops the beat at the exact moment I kick down the door holding a GE M61 Minigun.
I had to Google, ‘What’s that gun that goes wrrrrr in the movie Predator?’ to find out what it’s called. Apparently the GE stands for General Electric, which is interesting. I own light-bulbs made by the same company.
Holding Squirrel, I marched up the path between our house and Carl’s. I have no idea know what my intent was. I didn’t drive or take a lighter. I knocked loudly on the front door and waited. There was no answer. The top section of the door contained glass panels; I cupped my free hand over the glass and peered into the small living and dining area. Apart from a partly completed jigsaw puzzle of an autumnal scene on the dining table, it was the exact opposite of a Pottery Barn catalogue photo-shoot. There were only two dining chairs and the worn linoleum flooring was lifting in places. The walls, carpet, and velour sofa were all the same shade of beige, broken only by yellowing doilies and a faded print of Gogh’s Sunflowers. A vintage wooden television unit sat in the corner with an empty vase and ceramic horse on top. My grandparents had the same exact ceramic horse in their guest room, its head twists off and there’s cologne inside. There were no bookcases stacked with favorite novels, no knickknacks from places visited, no photos. A tangible nothingness, a not mattering, radiated outwards beyond the glass and I stepped back to avoid its touch.
Holly rubbed the fur on Squirrel’s neck as I dug a hole. We buried him at the foot of the large oak and smoothed the dirt over. It was as if he had never existed, never mattered, but he did. For a brief moment, he was the most important thing in the world. He was funny, gentle, stupid and loved.
The next day, I drilled anchor points between branches in the oak tree, about six feet from the ground, and secured Squirrel’s house there. I keep his pantry stocked and squirrels visit regularly. Sometimes there are three or four at a time. They like pumpkin seeds the best but I add peanuts and corn for variety. I ended up finishing the pool. Birds tend to use it more than squirrels but I’ve seen squirrels drink from it occasionally and they like sitting on the diving board.
Yesterday, when I lifted the roof to top up the pantry, I noticed something move beneath the linen in Squirrel’s bedroom. I peeled back a corner and discovered four baby squirrels. They were pink and bald, no larger than my thumb. I rubbed one gently on the head before closing the lid and Windexing the solar panel. None of them have names because I don’t want Holly to get too attached.
I watched Carl wash his Ford Fiesta from our kitchen window this morning. He washes and shines it thoroughly before he takes it out for a drive and washes and shines it thoroughly before putting it back in his garage. It fills a few empty hours. I have no idea where he drives to. Perhaps he just drives around. He’s never out long. Except Sunday mornings. Today, his round curly-haired wife helped by vacuuming the floor mats while he Pledged the hub caps. I couldn’t hear them from my vantage point so I have no idea what the ensuing argument was about but I saw him raise a hand and saw her flinch away. Perhaps she missed a spot. Perhaps he was just in a bad mood after discovering his tomato plants had disappeared during the night. The gardening stakes were snapped in half and a wheelbarrow was on its side so it was probably a bear or something.
Tomotes
From: Carl Mishler
Date: Tuesday 14 July 2015 2.11pm
To: Ben and Shirley Goertz, Carol McKensie, Joe McKensie, David Thorne, Sue Knowles, Rob Ellis, Janice Roberts
Subject: Trespassing
Dear Residents of the Forest Hill Subdivision,
I dont have the Beasleys email because its not on the subdivision contact list but Ill put a copy of this in their mailbox.
As some of you already know there someone trespassed on our property have been two instances of trespass on our property in the last 5 days. On thursday night someone stole tomato vines and vandalized property so I planted new vines on Sunday and some time that night they were also stolen.
I have my suspicions about whoes responsible and I passed those suspicions on to the local police yesterday. I also bought a trail camera today and its set up to cover the area.
When we establish the person responsible and its only a matter of when not if I’ll be pressing charges.
Id also recommend that the person whoes responsible remember that I have a legal right to protect my property and I own a firearm.
Carl Mishler
................................................................................................
From: David Thorne
Date: Tuesday 14 July 2015 2.41pm
To: Carl Mishler
CC: Ben and Shirley Goertz, Carol McKensie, Joe McKensie, Sue Knowles, Rob Ellis, Janice Roberts
Subject: Re: Trespassing
Dear Carl,
It was probably a bear or something.
Regards, David
................................................................................................
From: Carl Mishler
Date: Tuesday 14 July 2015 3.02pm
To: David Thorne
CC: Ben and Shirley Goertz, Carol McKensie, Joe McKensie, Sue Knowles, Rob Ellis, Janice Roberts
Subject: Re: Re: Trespassing
It wasnt a bear I know what bear tracks look like and a bear wouldnt take the vines completely out of the ground. This is a quiet community and we dont put up with this kind of BS around here.
I know exactly whoes responsible and its only a matter of time before charges are laid.
Carl Mishler
................................................................................................
From: David Thorne
Date: Tuesday 14 July 2015 3.12pm
To: Carl Mishler
CC: Ben and Shirley Goertz, Carol McKensie, Joe McKensie, Sue Knowles, Rob Ellis, Janice Roberts
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Trespassing
Was it Janice? I bet it was. She looks a bit shifty. Did you notice any walking-frame indentions?
................................................................................................
From: Janice Roberts
Date: Tuesday 14 July 2015 4.24pm
To: Carl Mishler, David Thorne, Ben and Shirley Goertz, Carol McKensie, Joe McKensie, Sue Know
les, Rob Ellis
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Trespassing
It wasn’t me.
................................................................................................
From: Janice Roberts
Date: Tuesday 14 July 2015 4.26pm
To: Carl Mishler, David Thorne, Ben and Shirley Goertz, Carol McKensie, Joe McKensie, Sue Knowles, Rob Ellis
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Trespassing
Why would I steal tomotes?
................................................................................................
From: Janice Roberts
Date: Tuesday 14 July 2015 4.28pm
To: Carl Mishler, David Thorne, Ben and Shirley Goertz, Carol McKensie, Joe McKensie, Sue Knowles, Rob Ellis
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Tresspassing
We have our own.
................................................................................................
From: David Thorne
Date: Tuesday 14 July 2015 4.47pm
To: Carl Mishler, Janice Roberts
CC: Ben and Shirley Goertz, Carol McKensie, Joe McKensie, Sue Knowles, Rob Ellis
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Tresspassing