The Night of the Sciurus

by Linda Watkins

  When I got home, Petey greeted me enthusiastically at the door, obviously anxious to go for a walk. Not wanting to disappoint him, I put down my purse and hooked up his lead. I’d picked up a can of pepper spray on my way to the mill and, now, I placed it in my pocket.

  “Okay, boy,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  By the time we got back, clouds were beginning to build in the sky over the lake.

  Another storm?

  I unleashed Petey, put him back in his e-collar, and sat down at the computer to check the weather. I wasn’t surprised – there was another system working its way across the lake. Oh, goody.

  Putting that out of my mind, I picked up the phone and called my realtor, Pam Weston. She was out of the office and I left a voicemail. I then tried my contact on the city council and got the same result. Didn’t anyone actually work in an office anymore?

  I chuckled at that thought – who was I to complain? I wasn’t any different. I was working from home, not in a stuffy, downtown building.

  Checking the time, I was surprised at how late it was. Poor Petey must be starved. I quickly put his dinner together and he gratefully chowed down. For me, I nuked some leftovers and, eager to turn my mind off for a while, sat down in front of the tube and turned on Netflix, knowing there would be some series there I could binge watch for the rest of the evening.

  The sound of thunder echoed outside.

  Curled up on the couch, with Petey beside me, I was glad we were safe and warm inside.

  9

  The Night Of The Scurius

  THE NEXT DAY was a gray, miserable one – perfect for doing more research on the Internet. It was drizzling outside, so, after getting dressed, I threw on a slicker and took Petey for his morning walk.

  The neighborhood was eerily quiet – no sign of man nor beast. When we returned to the house, I fed Petey, gave him his meds, and watched as he curled up in his bed next to my computer station. Then, I got to work.

  As much as I wanted to dive back into research on the mill, pollution, and the effects of it all on animals, an email from my editor told me I had more pressing stories to work on. It was, in fact, a reprimand because I had missed a deadline. I started to respond by first apologizing and then explaining that my dog had been attacked, but stopped when I realized it sounded suspiciously close to the old “the dog ate my homework” excuse. So, instead, I simply apologized and assured him it wouldn’t happen again.

  That over with, I spent the remainder of the morning putting together an article about the upcoming annual End-Of-Summer Lakeshore Festival. When I was satisfied the piece would pass muster, I checked outside – it was still gray and dreary, but at least the rain had stopped.

  “Come on, Petey,” I said. “I need to stretch my legs. Let’s go for a walk.”

  After a brisk walk around the circle, we returned to the house and I nuked a piece of stale pizza for lunch. As I ate, I thought about the neighborhood. There were more “For Sale” signs out and several of the properties looked as if they were vacant.

  Why? I asked myself. Oh, I knew some, like the folks two doors down, were away for the month of August, staying at their cottages in Petoskey, Traverse City, or the Upper Peninsula. But others, I was pretty sure, were just plain vacant.

  Maybe I was getting paranoid, but it didn’t seem normal. Could the behavior of the squirrels be the cause? I shook my head. I hadn’t seen one of those rodents all day. Where did they go when it rained? Their nests?

  I looked down at Petey. His wounds seemed to be healing nicely, but he was still traumatized. He was staying closer than usual. I patted him on the head, then turned my attention back to newspaper work. I wanted no more rebukes from my boss.

  At five o’clock, my eyes tired from so much time on the computer, I finally called it a day. I walked to the slider and looked outside. The sky was still a dismal gray, but I could see thunderheads building over near the big lake. This weather wasn’t going to break soon and it looked like we were in for another storm.

  I glanced over at Petey, who was curled up comfortably in his bed. I needed to get him out before the storm broke.

  “Come on, boy,” I called. “Time for walk.”

  Petey shook his head, trying to get loose from the plastic cone that surrounded him.

  “It’s okay, boy,” I said. “You don’t have to wear that for a walk.”

  I removed his cone, leashed him, and, throwing on my slicker, grabbed the house keys, and once again headed out the door.

  We walked without incident; however, I noted the wind was beginning to pick up, signaling that the storm was approaching rapidly. Otherwise, it was much like our earlier promenade – quiet, except for the rumbling of distant thunder, and uneventful.

  When we returned, I put a reluctant Petey back in his e-collar and was about to open the refrigerator to rustle up some dinner, when the lights began to flicker.

  Oh, no, I thought. Not another power outage.

  Loss of power happened frequently here in North Laketon due to high winds. The tall oaks that surrounded us were old and it was not uncommon for one or two to come down when a storm blew through across the lake.

  I stood holding my breath, waiting, but the lights regained full strength. Breathing a sigh of relief, I opened the refrigerator and began to peruse its contents.

  A clap of thunder shook the house. The lights flickered once again, then went out.

  Cursing, I closed the door then walked to the slider and stared out at the sky. A bolt of lightning streaked across the lake and I watched as the wind began its wicked dance through the tops of the trees.

  “Okay, Petey,” I said. “It’s the Thundershirt for you. Come with me.”

  I quickly wrapped my dog in his jersey contraption and, seeing that the garment covered most of his stitches, removed his e-collar.

  “You get a break tonight, baby,” I said. “No cone of shame.”

  I pulled a jar of cashews from the cupboard and sat down at the kitchen table. The house was dark and quiet – the only sound that of distant thunder and the click-click of Petey’s nails on the tile floor. I walked to the front door and peered out through the glass. Everything was eerily quiet.

  The calm before the storm, I thought. I’d better check in with the power company to make sure they know about the outage.

  I grabbed my cell and scrolled to the electric company’s app. It showed the outage with no estimate of when the electricity would come back on. I frowned, noting as I closed down the phone that I had forgotten to charge it.

  “What say we go out for dinner, Petey?” I asked the dog. “McDonalds may have power. Possibly even a generator. A Big Mac for me and burger for you and I can charge my cell as we go.”

  I leashed Petey, grabbed my coat, flashlight, and purse, and headed for the garage. I would have to open and close the garage door manually, but I thought I could handle that. However, as soon as I opened the door leading from the house, I knew something was terribly wrong.

  “Stay, Petey,” I ordered, pulling him to a halt before he could enter the garage.

  The smell of gasoline was strong and I shone my flashlight on the floor around the car. It was wet.

  “What the hell!” I exclaimed.

  I shone my light around the garage. Everything looked normal, with the exception of the window that faced the backyard. It was open and the screen was torn.

  I left Petey standing in the doorframe and crouched down to look under the car. Someone or something had torn out the gas line and, as a result, fuel had leaked out of the tank to puddle on the garage floor.

  I circled the vehicle. There were tiny footprints leading from the window to the car and back again.

  Squirrels?

  Had they done this? And, if they had, how? And, more important, why?

  I had no answers but knew that all this leaked gasoline created a fire hazard, especially in an enclosed space. I quickly unhitched the garage door and opened it to let air in to dry it out. The
n, feeling uneasy and rather exposed, I hurried back to where Petey sat and returned to the house. I closed the door firmly behind me and engaged the deadbolt.

  “I guess that kills our dinner plans, Petey,” I said, patting him on the head. “It’s going to be a sandwich for me and cold dog food for you.”

  I unleashed the dog and was about to open the refrigerator when a noise from the front of the house caught my attention. It sounded like someone yelling. Puzzled, I walked to the entryway and peered out.

  Ruth Gainer, the local dentist who lived across from us, was running down her driveway toward the street. She was screaming at the top of her lungs and pulling frantically at something that was in her hair.

  “Get it off! Get it off!”

  I opened the door, about to run outside to help her when something dove from the branches that loomed over her head, landing square on the middle of her back.

  A squirrel!

  The rodent was followed immediately by two more large squirrels and the weight of their bodies apparently drove poor Ruth to her knees.

  As soon as she hit the pavement, a dozen or more of the nasty rodents scurried out from under the bushes that lined the front of her house, attacking her from all sides.

  I froze, halfway out the door, my mind reeling. The sight was horrifying.

  The poor woman was covered with squirrels biting and scratching at her without mercy.

  It was over in mere seconds. She lay still. The squirrels abandoned her lifeless body, leaving her crumpled in the driveway, covered in blood.

  Terrified, I watched the creatures return to the oaks. I tried to wrap my mind about what had just happened, but it was too horrible. Slowly, I stepped back inside.

  It had been like a planned attack. But they were just squirrels – mindless creatures – how could they plan anything?

  I shook off that thought. I had to go back out there and help her. Determined, once again I stepped out onto the porch and started down the steps, but a sound coming from the branches above made me freeze.

  Chittering.

  Drops of water hit my forehead as I looked up into the trees. There was movement in the leaves – lots of movement.

  Quickly, I reversed course and ran back inside, slamming the door behind me. My heart was pounding. Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed my cell – I had almost no power left – and dialed nine-one-one. The phone went immediately to voicemail and a recording advised me that all lines were busy and to call back later.

  Call back later? I thought. A woman is lying dead or near death just across the street and they tell me to call back later?

  I shut down the phone and knelt beside Petey.

  “We’ve got to get outta here, boy,” I whispered. “But how?”

  I got up and, unable to help myself, looked outside again. I prayed that somehow the driveway across the street would be empty and that Ruth had managed to escape back into the safety of her house.

  But she hadn’t.

  She lay on the concrete, unmoving – curled into a ball. The squirrels were gone, but so was she. A wave of guilt washed over me. I should have done something. But what? If I’d gone out there, the squirrels would have gotten me, too. And, if I were dead, what would happen to Tessa?

  I shook my head and, reluctantly, turned from the door. There had to be a way out of this. I walked back to the kitchen and placed a scoop of dog food in Petey’s bowl.

  “Here, boy,” I said. “You eat.”

  I started to walk back to my office when something lying on the kitchen counter caught my eye.

  A key.

  “The Hartman house!” I exclaimed. “They have a generator!”

  Lucille and David Hartman lived two doors down from us. They had a cabin somewhere on Lake Superior and, habitually, spent the month of August there. Before they left, Lucille asked me if I would water her plants and keep an eye on the place. David had COPD and relied on an inhaler and other medical equipment. Because of our frequent power outages, Lucille told me they’d installed a generator last spring.

  I felt a surge of hope run through my body. All we had to do was make it across two front lawns. If we could do that, then I would be able to charge my cell and try to find out what the hell was going on and what the police were doing about it.

  It seemed simple. But how would we survive the short journey? Ruth hadn’t even made it to end of her driveway.

  I glanced down at Petey, who was finishing his meal. He was still wearing his Thundershirt.

  Staring at him, my mind began to whirl. Layers – if we dressed in layers, perhaps the squirrels wouldn’t be able to harm us. Hats, gloves, jackets, long pants. Maybe even some protective sports’ gear. We’d sweat, but perhaps we’d live.

  I went to my bedroom and began rummaging through the dresser. I found an old pair of corduroy gardening pants that were elasticized at the ankles. I put them on, then hurried to the hall closet. I had a three-quarters’ length leather jacket that would be hard to bite through. I grabbed it and a scarf which I wrapped around my neck. I then went back to the bedroom and, in the rear of the closet, where the winter clothes were stored, found my ankle-length down coat and knee-high leather snow boots. I grabbed a baseball cap and two knit hats and placed them on my head, one on top of the other. I carried the coats back to the living room where Petey was waiting anxiously.

  I patted him on the head then sat down next to him. What was I doing? Was I going crazy? We were safe here. Granted, I couldn’t call for help, but as long as we were indoors, the squirrels couldn’t get to us. Was it worth the risk just to get some cell service?

  “I don’t know what to do, Petey,” I said, running my fingers through his silky fur.

  He looked at me, his head cocked to one side as if trying to understand what I was saying. Then he stood and ran toward the door, barking loudly and insistently.

  “You think we should go?” I asked. “Do you sense something I can’t?”

  Ignoring me, he continued pacing back and forth. Something had upset him and I wondered what it could be.

  My mind flashed back to a memory from childhood. I was around ten-years-old. It was summer and we were at our family’s cabin on Lake Superior. It was late afternoon and my sister and I were playing jacks on the porch. Our dog, Max, was outside with us. Normally, he would lie in the sun and sleep. But not this day. Max was nervous – agitated. He had been pacing the yard since mid-morning despite constant commands from my father to settle down.

  The day passed and, as the sun approached the horizon, my father went outside to gather wood for the fireplace. Max went with him. As my father loaded up his canvas firewood tote, Max once again began pacing, hackles up, a low growl emanating from his throat. I remember my dad looking at him queerly, asking, “What is it, boy? What’s out there?”

  My sister and I were watching from inside the cabin when, suddenly, a crashing sound came from the underbrush just beyond our woodpile. Max stood stone still, lips curled, teeth bared, staring at the bushes.

  A moment later, a large black bear emerged from the woods.

  “Sweet Jesus,” my father whispered, dropping the canvas tote.

  The bear lumbered a few steps into the yard then stopped, focusing his gaze on our large black Labrador retriever.

  Neither the bear nor Max moved. They seemed to be locked in some sort of dangerous game of chicken, neither one prepared to give ground. My dad began to slowly back away, trying to get to the safety of the cabin.

  The bear roared!

  Max stood firm, answering the bear with a loud, menacing growl.

  My dad reached the porch.

  “Max, come!” he yelled. But the dog didn’t move.

  “Martha,” my dad called to my mom. “Bring me a couple of pots.”

  My mother, who had been watching with us, grabbed a frypan and saucepan and handed them to Dad through the slider. Never taking his eyes off the bear, Dad began banging the pots together and yelling at the top of his lungs. T
he bear, startled, shifted his attention away from Max to my dad. When this happened, Dad again yelled to the dog. “Come now, Max!”

  This time Max obeyed. The bear seemingly confused, didn’t react quickly enough and both my dad and our dog made it safely inside.

  Dad called the wildlife and game people who told us to stay in the cabin, doors locked, until morning when they would come by to track the bear, tranquilize it, and rehome it to an area less populated.

  That night at dinner, the steak my mom had defrosted went to Max. We got hamburgers.

  Ever since that episode, I’ve had a lot of faith in dog intuition. Their senses are much more acute than ours. Max knew that bear was around all day when we didn’t have a clue. Perhaps now, in this situation, Petey knew something I didn’t. Maybe we weren’t so safe here after all.

  “Okay, boy,” I finally said. “I’m putting my faith in you. We go.”

  He seemed to understand and came running back to my side. I gave him a brief hug, told him to stay and, once again, took inventory of the stuff I had collected for our escape.

  It wasn’t enough.

  I raced upstairs to Tessa’s room. She had some protective leg gear from field hockey, and, while the shin guards were sizes too small for me, I managed to strap them onto my legs.

  When I returned downstairs, I retrieved two dog coats from the hall closet along with Petey’s winter boots that protected his feet from salt. He didn’t like the foot gear, but after kicking a bit, began reluctantly to tolerate them.

  I put on my leather jacket and boots, then the down coat. I turned up the collar of the jacket and wrapped another scarf about it. Then I topped it all off with the hood on the down coat and wrapped two more scarfs around my neck. The final one I stretched across the lower part of my face so only my eyes were visible.