Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“Squirrels are God’s gifts to humans. I never let anyone say anything against them.”

“They have a lot of squirrels in Washington—”

“You can say that again! Ha ha ha!”

“One year they planted five thousand dollars’ worth of bulbs in the White House flower beds, and the squirrels dug them all up.”

“I’ll bet somebody made political hay out of that little mistake!”

“I’ll bet they had a Squirrelgate Investigation! Ha ha ha!”

“Our dog chases them up a tree, and they turn around and laugh at him. Drives him berserk!”

“They’re born comedians!”

“They’re rodents! If they didn’t have those bushy tails, there’d be a law against them.”

“One winter we went to Florida and squirrels got into our attic and had a ball! They like attics.”

Qwilleran decided this would be the easiest column he had ever written. He turned off the tape recorder and strolled down to the creek.

As he approached it, there were sounds of jubilation. Three persons in front of Cabin Three were laughing and crowing and flinging their arms wide: Hannah and a young couple in jeans. The boy from Cabin Two looked on wistfully until his mother called him away.

“What goes on here?” Qwilleran called out.

All three talked at once. “Good news! She’s gone! . . . The airport limo picked her up! . . . Free at last! We’re gonna celebrate!”

Hannah made the introductions. They were Wendy and Doyle Underhill from Cabin Three. They recognized the author of the “Qwill Pen.” They had enjoyed the column on skeeters. Was it true that only female mosquitoes bite?

Wendy said, “That’s why Doyle gets bitten so much. It’s his sex appeal!”

Both young people were vibrantly attractive. She had a tumble of dark hair and merry eyes; he looked wholesomely healthy like a camp counselor.

Doyle said, “I like the name of your newspaper.”

Wendy said, “I love your slogan!”

Boxed in a corner of the masthead were three words: “There’s Always Something!”

Qwilleran explained his mission:

“Today I’m taking the public pulse on the squirrel situation.”

“Ask him anything,” said Wendy, giving her husband a playful shove. “He’s an expert on wildlife.”

“Not an expert, but I read a lot.”

“Then how do you explain the squirrel’s penchant for gnawing power lines and roof shingles?”

“They have to gnaw—or die. Their front teeth, the incisors, actually grow as much as six inches in a year if they don’t grind them down. They have an instinct for substances that make efficient grindstones.”

Wendy said, “I like having them around, but I don’t encourage them with peanuts, or anything like that.”

Hannah said, “They don’t bother me. I think they don’t like Gilbert and Sullivan. But I saw something amazing one day. A squirrel was floating across the creek on a piece of tree bark or something. I couldn’t believe it! I think he was using his tail for a sail. I wish I’d had a camera.”

“May I quote this?” Qwilleran asked.

“But don’t use my name. Some people think I have a crackpot hobby; they’ll think I’m over the edge. . . . Why don’t we sit on my porch and have some lemonade?”

They moved to Cabin One.

Wendy said, “I’d love to photograph squirrels racing and chasing each other and running up trees and flying through the branches. Then I’d edit the film to synchronize with Schubert’s Impromptu in F Minor—perfect squirrel music! Then I’d do a rabbit film to his Klavierstücke in C—perfect hippity-hop music.”

“One question,” Qwilleran asked. “If squirrels are so agile, why are there so many dead ones on the highway?”

“I just happen to know the answer,” said Doyle. “They’re quite comfortable with parked cars, but they panic when they meet a moving car, and they try to get up a tree. But it has to be a familiar tree! They’re territorial creatures. They’ll fight with another squirrel to protect their own territory. . . . so we have this squirrel running to avoid an approaching vehicle, but there’s a Murphy’s Law for Squirrels: One’s personal tree is always on the other side of the road! He dashes in front of the car and—another dead squirrel on the highway . . . My next lecture will be at . . .”

Qwilleran asked the Underhills how they planned to celebrate their neighbor’s absence. They said:

“We’ll whoop and holler and play loud music.”

“We’ll roast hot dogs on our smoky charcoal stove—bacon-wrapped to make more smoke.”

“We’ll do wild dances on the beach, half naked.”

Hannah said, “Count me out of that one—please! But I’ll make cole slaw.”

Wendy asked, “How about joining the party, Mr. Qwilleran?”

He replied solemnly, “Mr. Qwilleran went home early. I’m Qwill, his doppelganger.” A remark that brought trills of laughter. “Yes, I’d like to join your celebration if you’ll let me provide the beverages and keep my clothes on.”