Squeak!

One spring afternoon, my brother and I made our way home after school. I fished the house key out of the clothespin basket on the deck. While my parents trusted me to stay home and watch my brother until our parents came home from work, I was apparently too young to carry my own key.

I unlocked the door, and immediately heard a high-pitched squeak! I thought it was Maggie, so I went looking for her. She was fast asleep on the couch. As I pet her, I heard it again, coming from another part of the house. Squeak!

They grew louder as I made my way upstairs, until I found myself standing under the attic door in the hallway. Squeak, squeak! We had those ladder stairs that folded down from the ceiling, and I wasn't allowed to open them. It didn't matter anyway; I was too short to reach the handle.

Squeak, squeak, squeak!

By that time, I heard Mom's car pull into the driveway. I ran downstairs and outside to meet her.

"Mom! Mom! There's a weird squeaky noise coming from the attic!" I even imitated it for her. "Squeak, squeak!"

I practically dragged her upstairs. We both stood in the hallway, staring up at the attic door. Nothing. Not a peep.

"I have to make dinner, Andrea. Go start your homework," she said as she headed back downstairs. Her annoyance was not lost on me.

Was I crazy? Did I imagine these sounds? I was so confused and frustrated.

I trudged down the stairs to get my books when I heard it again. SQUEAK!

"MOM!"

She came back upstairs, and this time the squeaks didn't stop.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you. Stay here."

She pulled down the stairs, brushing away the chunks of fluffy pink insulation that always came down with them, and climbed up. I heard her footsteps as she walked around for what felt like an eternity.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

I could barely contain myself. "What is it?" I hoped it was a kitten. Maggie, who had come to investigate, glared at me, like she knew what I was thinking.

"It's a baby squirrel! Its mom must've gotten in through one of the vents."

"I'll name him Squeak. Can we keep him?" I asked, naturally. Who wouldn't want a pet squirrel?

"No. We'll wait and see if the mom comes back." Mom put together a shoe box bed full of washcloths and removed our guest from the insulation of our unfinished attic. It was a move I didn't understand at the time; that insulation looked pretty darn comfortable to me, even though I wasn't allowed to touch it.

I really wanted to go up in the attic to meet him, but Mom wouldn't let me. Even though I couldn't see Squeak, I felt responsible for him and made sure to keep my parents on top of his care.

I'm not sure how long we waited, but Mama Squirrel never came back. Squeak's squeaks grew quieter, and less frequent.

Squeak... squeak.

Squeak was weak. One day, Mom brought Squeaks and his bed down from the attic. It was my first time seeing him. He was so small, not more than a few inches long, and so cute. His eyes were still closed, and his tail wasn't fluffy yet. I pleaded with Mom to let me keep him. He needed me!

Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons

Against my wishes and despite my tears, we piled into the car and drove to a building in the woods.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"A hospital for wild animals. They will help Squeak get better. Then, when he's old enough, they'll release him back into the forest."

"Will we ever see him again?"

"Probably not. But he'll be OK. You made sure we took good care of him, now it's the doctors' turn."

I was sad, but I knew it was the best thing to do.

We came home, and Dad was up in the attic, resealing the vents. We never got another Squeak.

Since then, whenever I see a squirrel, I think of Squeak. I wonder how he turned out. I'll never know for sure, but I like to think he found a nice squirrel wife, settled down in a big oak tree, and had a bunch of squirrel babies.

Photo credit: BetterPhoto.com

Ode to Maggie

My newlywed parents found a tiny black cat in an alley in 1970s Brooklyn. They took her home, and named her PJ. She was their baby, until I came along. The only memory I have of PJ is her hissing at me and scratching my face. I was very young, so I don't remember why, but I wasn't keen on animals after that. Would you be?

PJ passed away when I was still young. We didn't get another pet after that.

When I was in the third grade, my best friend found a small grey and white cat in a strip mall parking lot and brought her home. Two days later, that cat had four kittens. My friend already had two dogs, and the new mom was having none of it. Imagine this little cat chasing after a Rottweiler and Irish Wolfhound! When the kittens were old enough, my friend's family gave two away, kept two for themselves, and offered the mother to me. 

I was skeptical. She sounded mean, like another PJ. But Mom named her Maggie and brought her home. Maggie made her mark right away. She caught mice and birds in our yard, got into occasional fights with strays, and explored the neighbors' yards. Despite her adventures, she still came home every night to eat and sit on the couch with us. 

One day, I was making a sandwich and offered Maggie a piece of turkey. It was our first bonding experience. From that day on, she came running whenever she heard the rustle of the deli plastic. It came in handy when I had trouble calling her inside at night.

Over time, the hunting and fights stopped. She was healthy, just getting older. She still had moments of playfulness, especially with jingle ball toys, and the pile of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. I wondered if she had any memory of life as a stray, or her kittens. 

Through elementary, middle, and high school, Maggie was a constant in my life. After school, she'd sit on my lap and I'd forget, at least for a while, about how Jessica made fun of me or the bad grade I got on my math test. I'd rant about stupid boys or whatever else I was obsessed with that day. I knew she couldn't understand me, and probably wasn't even listening, but she tolerated it. That was enough for me.

I missed Maggie terribly when I went off to college. Her photo had a prominent place on the desk in my dorm room. Her advancing age became more noticeable each time I came home to visit. She moved slower, she got even fatter, at one point up to 18 pounds! It was harder for her to jump up on the couch, and she was no longer interested in going outside.

After college, I moved away. Maggie got sick and passed away, at the ripe old age of 15. I was sad, but it wasn't until my next visit home that it hit me. I went to make myself a turkey sandwich, rustled the bag, but Maggie never came. The house suddenly felt so empty.

I could've easily been sworn off of cats for life after PJ's scratch, and never adopted another pet. But Maggie not only turned me into a cat person, she made the rest of my family love animals, too! My father adopted another cat about a year after Maggie died. I also adopted two cats. My brother adopted a dog. I can't imagine my life without their companionship. Thank you, Maggie.