The secret code to a wild squirrel’s heart is p-e-a-n-u-t-s. While I was was exploring one of the far reaches of our woods last autumn, a squirrel shrilled out a rapid-fire chattering, expressing frankly that I was messing around in her territory.
What would it be like to have that unapproachable creature come up to me for peanuts? I asked myself.
And I set forth to find out. The next day I returned to the same area with a handful of Valencia peanuts. I quickly noticed that the squirrel, which had to be the same one, was sitting silently in a willow. She was quite speechless at this audacity, and her eyes, black as blackberries, missed none of my mysterious actions. I was poking peanuts into cracks and crevices and leaving them on top of logs. But when I left, the squirrel applauded my exit with a cascade of chattering. She had to have the last word.
I was back the second day. Every single peanut had vanished. I looked around and spied the squirrel perched in another willow, observing with her bright eyes. I left all the peanuts at the base of a huge leaning aspen which, if I would stop jumping ahead, became our rendezvous point.
The third day I was startled to hear the rustling approach of the squirrel. She scurried out on a low branch to study me from a distance of only 3 feet (1 meter). She asked (in squirrel language, of course, at which I am quite fluent), “Are you the one who leaves those remarkable goodies? And do you have more of them?”
“If it’s the peanuts you mean, I certainly do,” I replied.
“This is happening much faster than I ever expected,” I remarked on the fourth day. Squirrelie nose-dived down the trunk of
the big aspen while I held out a peanut to her. She scampered all around my hand but lacked one last extra dash of courage. In a minute, she remembered that she was a wild squirrel, and she darted up the tree, chirping excitedly.
The fifth day was the day the squirrel rippled down the tree and nipped the peanut from my fingers. That lightning-fast moment was quite a moment! She dashed gleefully away through the trees with it…and soon came back for another one. Mission successful!
She had a way of twirling the peanut in her paws from one end to the other, seeking the best way to hold it. Then she would bite off the tip of the shell and seize the rim with her teeth, darting away like a streak. Some peanuts she stashed in tree crevices. Some she buried in the ground. She would scratch furiously in the leaves, drop in the peanut, then flick and pat the leaves back over. She made a great deal of commotion. Once she saw I was watching her bury a peanut. She scolded me soundly, dug it up, and ran away to bury it where I couldn’t see her.
It’s hard to properly describe a squirrel. You feel you must scrabble for words that keep up with her lightning movements. She never, never moves “slowly.” Every tiny action is snap-fast and sometimes can hardly be processed. She darts, leaps, jerks, skitters, flicks, all performed with abrupt, razor-sharp precision. I have never seen her make a slip.
The first few weeks Squirrelie was very high-strung and flighty. While I was processing one dart, she had executed two more. It was a rather breathless interaction. I could hardly ever predict what she’d do next. If she got too excited, she would mistake my finger for the peanut. I was bitten—hard—several times. That bite force is no joke.
Over the next year, we became quite the friends. I was delighted to have this wild squirrel trust me enough to come right up for peanuts. She calmed down, and my visits were accepted as part of the scenery. She would linger a few extra seconds before springing away. She began to eat the nuts on a branch overhead and, by this autumn, was perching comfortably at eye level with me only a foot away (30 cm).
I was able to see every detail of her perfect design—her sparkling black eyes, the two cream crescents above and below them, and the fine black whiskers. Her front paws are tiny, delicate, and super dexterous. She eats the nut with 10x-speed nibbles, her plume of a tail quirked over her back. The fur on her back is orange-brown flecked with black, and is cream on her stomach. She fairly vibrates with life and vivacity and energy even while sitting still and munching a peanut. When the last crumb has vanished, she scrubs her face with her paws and is ready for a second course.
It is currently the second winter of this episode. The snow is 2 feet (60 cm) deep and getting deeper. I won’t see her often, if ever. Squirrels don’t hibernate, but they have long sleeping spells, from nearly a day to several days if it’s really cold. They wake to eat dried mushrooms—and peanuts, if they have a human friend. There are absolutely no nut trees for the squirrels in this corner of creation. If the sun happens to be shining palely, they sit, snooze, and sunbathe high in a tree.
Squirrel-and-I is the most interesting ever-unfolding nature nugget in my life. It’s thrilling to have a wild squirrel put her cold little paw on my finger while grabbing a peanut! A squirrel’s paws are cold even in summer. Oh, and once she let me run my finger up her furry nose.