While at our house yesterday, I noticed something out by our pool. Going to the window, I strained to see what it was through the curtain of rain falling from the sky. Squinting my eyes, I identified it to be a squirrel that looked to be flattened out, not completely but enough to make me concerned. Leaning closer, my nose almost touching the glass, I stared at it, hoping I’d see it move. It did, but in uber slow motion, as if every single action was the greatest effort.
It took a few steps, dragging its tail behind it. Then, in a monumental effort, it attempted to swish its tail into the air. The result? An arc of water spraying from its poor drenched tail that must have felt like a ball and chain.
How sad!
Its tail now elevated, though not entirely arched over its back, the little fella ventured over to the grass. Each time its tiny paws landed on the soaked lawn, they would recoil and then shake similar to a cat getting its paws wet.
Awww….
The squirrel foraged for food—anything palpable—for a minute or two then bolted with lightening speed off the grass, across the pool deck and onto the back of a chair at the far end of our pool. Teetering on the edge of it, I watched as its tail, heavily laden with water, plopped with a likely thud against the back of the chair, the rest of the squirrel’s body seeming to droop in conjunction.
Poor guy!
I imagined this was the squirrel I usually see springing with agile grace from one tree limb to another. But yesterday, it appeared that just existing in the torrential downpour, which has lasted for several days, was about all it could handle. I felt so bad for the little guy, wishing it would seek cover until the storm blew out. But he didn’t. Like a stoic statue, he sat atop that chair back for the longest time before beginning the foraging-for-food-while-dealing-with-his-waterlogged-tail process anew.
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