If she had not lost over half of her tail when she was a baby, Squirrel could have enjoyed the wild life, too. But she wouldn't have lived to be nine years old (just one or two) even if she could have jumped from limb to limb. Disabled, she would not have made it in the woodlands.
Belle spent some of her afternoon on the glider footstool looking into an empty cage. She knows what it means - as relating to food - when I tell her "Gone, all gone," and "Sorry, no more," holding out my hands to her, empty and wide open.
"Gone," I said. "Squirrel is gone. Sorry. No more."
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| The last picture of Squirrel. |
Finally, her attention was taken by the Cardinal Couple who were having some kind of a spat (!) in the bush on the corner of the porch. Then Belle saw the yard squirrels coming out for their supper. She looked at me with surprise. I believe she thinks Squirrel has gone outside to live. She curled up on the stool and was soon snoring. So, this is progress.
I don't know why I keep thinking of Squirrel in a panic, as if I am neglecting her, have forgotten to feed her, didn't give her water. It's hard to give her up. She was the last gift Wayne gave me. Except for Corey, Tom, and Jack, she is/was my final tie to him.
When I know Wayne wouldn't want me to cry, I can usually "Buck up Old Girl." But not today. I'm living that older loss over and over. "Don't be afraid." "Take care of Corey." "Smile for me." "I love you." You call this progress?
