To Die Is A Curious Thing, Even For Squirrels

I’ve never actually witnessed death before, but it’s made shocking, and unwelcome appearances throughout my life.

Death is rarely ever greeted, accepted or appreciated. We celebrate birthdays but never deathdays. Maybe we do not hold as much importance in death as we should. Not that we must welcome it, eagerly giving up life, but maybe we should see it not as the atrocity that we most often do. It surly is a most curious thing.

I’m now sitting in my backyard, on the dusty, bottom step of the brick stairs leading to the raised earth toward the back of the yard. Outside, in the large oak trees above me, lives a family of squirrels. For years I saw them chase each other, rusting through the branches overhead. They would hop greedily onto the birdfeeders, shoveling seeds into mouths. I’ve always liked them, never minding one bit that they were not the birds that the feeders were originally set up for. They are always entertaining to watch.

But today, one of the elder red squirrels is dying. Maybe it sounds strange that anyone would care about a squirrel, but here I am out in the yard, keeping him company. He seemed to know his life was leaving him, as he came uncharacteristically close to the ground. For a while he held tightly on a low branch, which caught the attention of Lyra. She became excited, and then barked agitatedly when she could not reach the squirrel. That was what first made me realize that something was wrong. The squirrels usually enjoy teasing her, chatting in her face and flipping their tails menacingly. But today the squirrel did nothing. It only just lay there, taking shallow breaths, just out of reach. I put Lyra inside.

Three quarters of an hour later, he fell with a soft thud that barely caught my attention. He lay on the ground, each moment his breathing slowed. He would blink occasionally, looking up, or twitch an ear. It made me wonder what kind of things would catch his attention, even as death set in.


A while later, completely against what I would have expected, the squirrel looked up toward the far left. He stood up and bounded in that direction, where the young trees all seemed to bow next to the ivy-laden fence. Once there, he rested on one of the hill supporting, wooden barriers. His eyes began to close slightly now, and he held on tightly to the wood for balance. He crouched, covered in the swashes of sunlight that filtered from the trees. He seemed almost to nod off, gravity beckoning him, causing his body to sway slightly off the piece of wood, but at the last second he would catch himself and hold on tightly. Little by little however, his grip began to slacken.

It’s amazing to be in the midst of all this. As the little squirrel nodes off, more and more frequently, life goes on around him. My mother shuffles around inside the house. The birds fly down from the trees to peck at the dusty earth, the neighbors bang in and out of the house, Lyra’s breath turns to condensation on the glass as she waits curiously at the back door, and I lay lazily in the sun, taking in the scene.

I think I take it for granted, being alive. Just being able to lay here, looking up at the patchwork canopy of leaves. Being able to close my eyes, blanketing my vision with a deep red. Feeling the sun on my closed eyelids, and watching it dance across my face from beneath them. Falling asleep, then parting my lids just a little bit, so a gentle line of light plays beneath my lashes, hinting at the glorious scene above me. Then, opening my eyes again to the day, taking in the great mosaic of colors that flood my vision. The afternoon ever more intense after having it returned to me.