Our backyard is a woodland creature's haven with its plentiful Oak trees loaded with acorn-lined branches to scurry, climb, and pounce to one's tiny, furry delight. If it's not a squirrel, it's a chipmunk; if it's not a chipmunk, it's an opossum; and well, if it's not an opossum, it's some meandering neighbor's kitty cat. They come and go as they please; our backyard is truly their home away from home.
It became abundantly clear to me today that it isn't just the rolling, green hill and perennial woody plant playground that calls so many four-legged creatures to come a'calling. It's also our deck. And it's so much more than an outdoor wooden floor attached to the back of our house. It's a trough. A three-squares a day, plus snacks, dining apparatus for every Jumpy Squirrel on Whistlestop Road.
I've known for quite some time that the animals come scampering throughout the day to see what edible treat has befallen their tracks. The kitchen door opens to the deck, and when Heath and Stella don't finish a pancake, the scraps are thrown on the deck. Heath's crustless sandwiches, where do the crust pieces go? Tossed to the deck. Stella dumps a bowl of goldfish crackers on the floor and insists they are Too doity to finish consuming? Open door, cheesey, carp-like wafers go flying. The kids even know the drill. For Jumpy, they matter-of-factly explain, while hurtling a plate of last bites of grapes or ham or muffin out the door.
This morning both kids were interested in having a bowl of Special K Red Berries for breakfast. This is the second day in a row they have made such a request, and have been thoroughly enjoying the rice cereal crunch/dried strawberries combo. They particularly like when the milk begins to take on a pink berry haze, then suck down the fruity liquid with much gusto. And after they down the first bowl, they plead for one more. For two mornings, leftovers have been non-existent.
When I finally got around to making Heath's lunch for school, it was slightly later than usual. I hurriedly cut the crusts for his PB&J, briskly moved to the backdoor to absentmindedly toss the wheat bits to the deck. As I opened the door, raring back my arm to make the creature-snack throw, I was struck by the sight of a giant squirrel, standing in front of the back door, big-eyed, and apparently, very, very hungry.
He didn't move. I didn't move. We were both frozen, eyes locked. I do not want to claim to be any type of Squirrel Whisperer, but the truth is, we had a moment. A telepathic conversation between one woman, running late to take her preschooler to school, still in her pajamas, and one squirrel who has grown so accustomed to his timely meals, he has not only put on more than a few pounds, he has now become impatient, and somewhat demanding.
I let him tell me what he thought of my lack of breakfast fringe the last two days, and I acquiesced by slowly dropping the crusts on the bottom step. He waited until I closed the door to pick up his meal. After lumbering his way to the bread, he picked up the snack and fervently nibbled away. I watched him through the glass, while he held the pieces between both hands, never dropping his gaze from mine. Just as I considered grabbing the camera, both Heath and Stella came pounding over to the door.
Jumpy, they screamed in unison.
And of course, Jumpy waddled away, taking every last crumb with him. The kids lost interest and I tried to get them into the task of getting shoes on, something that can take anywhere between two and twenty minutes. As I was desperately trying to get Stella to shove her little foot into a shoe, I peeked out the door and saw Jumpy sitting on the deck ledge. He caught my stare. I'm pretty sure his eyes were saying, Thank you for the appetizer. Lunch will be served at 11:30. And it better be good, lady.
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