Squirrels

Consider, if you will, the plight of the suburban squirrel. They have no written history, therefore their only link with the knowledge and experiences of their ancestors is through oral recitation. With squirrel's memory what it is, things get rather garbled over time. They tell of a time when when they ruled the planet, dogs and cats would run from them and it was the cars that were confused when facing a squirrel in the middle of a road.

Today’s Suburban Squirrels live in an environment evolution could never have conceived, nor does it seem that there could be one for which they are better adapted. Their predators are few. Cats, adolescent males with slingshots, and radial tires. Their opportunities are endless. In some communities they thrive so well that they have crossed the line that separates the cute, arboreal mammal from the invasive, tree-dwelling rodent. In most neighborhoods, however, they are still arboreal and cute. If you keep your eyes open you will occasionally see one running hurredly, late to an appointment, with hat and briefcase.

Squirrels are the pet that will allow you to go on vacation for two weeks without having to ask a friend or neighbor to take care of them for you. They can be quite entertaining and combine an intense curiosity with a boldness that can be surprising in a wild animal. Indeed my friend Richard had one he called Chester that would come into his living room to score nuts out of the dish he kept for that purpose on his coffee table.

Richard and I have known each other for many years. When we were fair youths, we would go up to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to feed the squirrels and, as a side line, the pigeons. We took this as a serious affair preparing by purchasing pounds of roasted peanuts. On the drive up to the City we would chomp down peanuts and sing squirrel songs to psyche ourselves into the proper squirrel state of mind. Yes, feeding the squirrels can be Serious Business.

We were pretty good at this or so we thought. Our technique consisted of walking around the Japanese Tea Garden or Arboretum until we saw a squirrel. We would hold out a peanut and start clucking our tongues at it, a crude but effective method. We were rather successful and on numerous occasions had our pictures snapped by babbling tourists while squirrels perched on shoulders, arms and heads whilst chewing peanuts. If we were in an open area and not thinking straight our shoulders would take on a chalky appearance; the result of being too long a roost for the pigeons. We were proud of the photo opportunities that we were providing for all of the provincials who came to gawk and point cameras at the clever city fellows.

Then one day we saw a true master of the art of squirrel feeding.

It was a typical San Francisco dawn. The fog was thick and hung down to our ankles. It muted the sounds of the city as much as it limited the distance we could see. This shuttering of our senses put all of our awareness into that which was nearby. The everyday, when given all of your attention, can become otherworldly and as we passed through the gates of the Tea Garden we entered into a realm beyond past experience. We were as babes, wide eyed and innocent, approaching a wisdom beyond all comprehension. Satori in the Tea Garden awaited. The answer to the Koan of Squirrel feeding, from the lips the Buddha incarnate, in one of the ten-thousand guises, was before us. ...We thought the fog was, like, cool.

When the fog is thick, the paths of the Tea Garden are labyrinthine. You can lose yourself in your thoughts or you can find yourself in them. Each step following the previous. Each turn providing new vistas, sometimes familiar, others strange and altered. We passed the pagoda and turned into a wooded area that looked like a good place to find squirrels. There was an opening in the fog here, nebulous tendrils reached out from the thick mist that defined the edge of our universe. We stood silent a moment and heard a muttering further along the path.

Materializing from beyond the edge of our visible universe plodded an old woman. She was bent with age and walked with a determination that belied her frailty. Her overcoat was wrinkled and worn, yet clean and unstained. She was wearing a petite straw hat, burgundy in color and had fawn colored gloves for protection from the chill of that San Francisco autumn morning. Richard and I gave each other a little smile and walked up the path a ways to give her the space she seemed to request. She took no notice of us and went directly to her correct spot. She stood there a moment, looking around attentively, as a conductor about to give the downbeat. We could sense the suspense of the moment and felt an undefinable anticipation. There is a moment that all things await. Was ours soon to be?

Seeing that everything was to her satisfaction, she gave a little nod. It seemed as if she smiled just a bit as she reached into one of the pockets of her overcoat, pulled out a peanut and held it out over the short post she stood before. “Chaa-ly, Chaa-ly, come on Cha’ly, come an’ get it,” her gravely voice rasped. Suddenly there were dozens of squirrels running from all directions to her call. In minutes there was a squirrel on each of her shoulders, one on the post in front of her and many more around her feet. Her shoulders were positions of honor and the squirrels there stayed put. The post in front was the alter where a squirrel would clamber up to receive it’s peanut and then jump off so the next could make its ascent. There seemded to be an endless manifestation of peanuts from her pockets. She was an ancient Goddess bestowing the manna of peanuts to her following, handing each one to the squirrels saying, “Here ya go cha’ly. Here ya go cha’ly . . . ” The squirrels would then scamper off to bury the nut or hang around and eat it there.

This went on for ten to fifteen minutes, her bountiful pockets never failing to deliver the next peanut. Finally she said, “All right that’s enough for now.” The Squirrels intantly understood the message. The two squirrels on her shoulders jumped off and all the squirrels meandered away, more slowly now, filled with the blessings of her treats. She turned and continued walking down the path towards Richard and me. We stood there, our faces blank, dumbfounded... had we witnessed a celestial act? As she passed she paused slightly, her first acknowledgement of our existence. God was about to speak. She turned and whispered conspiratorially, “I call them all Cha’ly ‘cause I can’t tell them apart.”