Commentaries

COPP’S HILL MOMENT: “Pardon Me Ma’am”

(Even in the North End, visitors from the wild sometimes drop by.)

My wife called to say that she wanted to check out the sales and would be “nipping into town” — meaning anywhere west of the Haymarket for North Enders. I expected to find another notch on our credit card, not a Sciurus carolinensis awaiting me in the hallway. But there it was. A baby grey squirrel running laps deep within a cardboard box.

I shrugged and climbed the stairs in tense anticipation of what I was sure would be one heck of an explanation. My systolic rate was already on the rise. And it wasn’t the result of my rapid ascent to our 4th-floor apartment. My wife was prepared for my arrival and preemptively launched into her narrative. It seems that Mary had gone to Macy’s and was making her way down Salem Street, rounding the corner of Hull Street at Old North Church when she encountered a sidewalk commotion.

At the curb, a gaggle of Freedom Trail visitors were gaping at something in the gutter under the rear wheel of a car whose owner was about to pull out of a space. A frightened baby squirrel was quivering and frozen in place. Smacking her hand down on the trunk, my wife yelled to the driver to turn off the engine. Bending towards the pavement she lowered her shopping bag and scooped up the little critter which tumbled inside. Then she quickly strode off towards the rise of Copp’s Hill, leaving an astounded group of tourists in her wake. They were acting as if they had never seen a woman scoop up a squirrel in a shopping bag along a city sidewalk. Can you imagine?

Mary was within sight of our house when the squirrel decided that it wanted to see where this nice lady was carrying it. And so, it clawed it’s way up the side of the cloth and over the seam, holding on for dear life, swaying back-and-forth in rhythm with this new-found friend’s stride. Now I have to tell you that all of this was so totally out of keeping with Mary’s character. Her idea of ‘up close and friendly with nature’ is from a 17th floor hotel room overlooking Central Park. Yet she trudged onwards, doing her best to ignore the stares and shocked expressions as she threaded her way through a crowd of tourists. But, one woman with a southern drawl warily approached and said: “Pardon me ma’am. Did you know you have a squirrel hanging from your bag?” Nearing critical mass, Mary managed to squeeze out a ‘Thank you’ instead of “What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a squirrel hanging off a shopping bag before?

Upon her arrival home, Mary left the little beast between the outer and inner closed hallway door as she scrambled to find a suitable container. Fortunately our then sixteen year old daughter was already home from school. Christina had volunteered at the Museum of Science’s live animal center. If she could handle 12-foot Monty the Python, surely she would know what to do. And she did after first dutifully checking in with an animal rescue hotline for guidance.

The consensus was that the baby had become separated from its mother which may have temporarily wandered off in search of food or, then again, had unfortunately met up with a red tailed hawk flying reconnaissance over Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. Christina was advised to release the squirrel back among the trees and gravestones in hopes that it would be reunited with mama.

But, the little fur ball would have none of it, feeling more comfortable among humans than its mates on the Nature Channel. Once they arrived, it lingered at Christina’s feet as if waiting for her to make the next move. She quickly walked away, only looking back over her shoulder after putting some distance between them. By this time, the baby squirrel had approached a couple nearby who were studying a headstone epitaph and were less than enthralled to be befriended as surrogate parents.

In the belief that they were under attack by a rabid rodent, they began kicking the persistent little creature and shouting menacingly as it kept jumping on the toes of their shoes. At this point, Christina intervened, picking up the squirrel with a look of disgust at the pair, and walked back home to telephone the animal shelter folk. They advised her to wait until evening when no humans would be nearby.

At sunset in the approaching fall darkness, our daughter returned to the graveyard with the little squirrel and gently tilted the box on one side so that it could escape without assistance. It bolted from the cardboard container and immediately scampered up her arm and onto her back. Christina later described how ticklish and itchy her back and neck felt, grimacing at the thought of being on the receiving end of mites or lice burrowed in the animal’s fur. She dropped to her knees, writhing and furiously shaking her torso, but could not dislodge the squirrel which clung to her baggy shirt.

Battlefield expediency and Christina’s survival instincts took over as she tore off her shirt and shook it into the air. She would later remark that she wondered how this scene would have looked if neighbors on Hull Street happened to be gazing out their apartment window at dusk. “Oh, look dear! Is that the Schiavoni girl out in the burying ground in her underwear performing some satanic ritual with a live animal?”

Our teenage Earth Mother returned home crestfallen with the little creature and placed a third call to the animal rescue hotline. She was at her wits end. It had not sipped out of the little bowls of water and milk she had placed in the box because it was probably still nursing off its mother. She called the hotline a third time and approached me mournfully. “We’ve got to get it to a wild animal veterinarian down in Hingham as soon as possible. The rescue sanctuary opens at eight o’clock in the morning.” Since “Bringing abandoned baby squirrels to an animal sanctuary” is a subheading in the index of my parent’s manual, I volunteered immediately.

The next morning when I awoke at sunrise, I did not bother to disturb my wife or daughter. Skipping tea and toast, I had a sinking feeling that precious moments were slipping by. This was confirmed when I grabbed the car keys and opened the hallway door. The baby squirrel was still breathing, but motionless and with eyes shut. Since there was no expressway traffic as I headed towards the South Shore, I kept up a good pace all the way down to a Hingham exit and then past woodlands and along an unpaved road to a whitewashed cinderblock building. A friendly fellow greeted me, heard my explanation, eyeballed the contents of the box, carefully removed it from my hands and asked me to wait for his return in a few minutes. Maybe our little friend had already passed. Maybe the vet was easing me back into reality with a brief pause before gently informing me of its death. He gave me soothing reassurances that the little critter was born late in the season and never really stood a chance of survival because it had not been weaned.

Upon returning home, I did not have to say much to my wife and daughter. They knew the score from the look on my face, but were content that we had done everything humanly (maybe that was our problem) possible for this creature from the wild. It was not exactly an heroic intervention, but we tried in a small way to make a difference as we played our various roles: Rescuer. Nurturer. Ambulance attendant. My daughter recently recalled this episode and still marveled after all these years that I was willing to drive without complaint to Hingham on a doomed mission. That her mother who dials 911 whenever she sees a mouse, would scoop a baby squirrel from the gutter. That she herself might have been accused of witchcraft and sorcery in the graveyard on Copp’s Hill.

-end-

(North End resident Thomas F. Schiavoni writes about neighborhood life and city living.)

5 Replies to “COPP’S HILL MOMENT: “Pardon Me Ma’am”

  1. Love this story!!! Reading it I can visualize Mary through the whole thing! And not surprised the extent your family went to to help this little creature. Christina is a riot – with what the neighbors may think lol

  2. Once again, thanks Tom for sharing such an interesting account reflective of the dynamics of a loving family.

  3. Well told story, i enjoy reading your work. We have been there, done that with not one, but three orphaned babies, their mother presumed to be the recent victim in the street outside our home. Ours fell into our lives from the large pine tree in the yard, landing almost in my 11 year old daughter’s lap, on Mothers’ Day no less. As all things of this sort happen, on a Sunday when doctors’ offices are closed. We had a small syringe and were able to feed them a solution of sugar, salt and water as directed by OrphanedSquirrels.org, until my husband inadvertently poured the pitcher’s contents into the coffee maker Monday morning. Fortunately, by that time we had located a wildlife rehabilitator and delivered them to her care. It was a good Ranger Rick experience for our family, salted coffee aside.

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