We were planting at the garden over the weekend, and I ran home to get something.

::Phone ringing::
Me: “Hey.”
Sara, carelessly: “Hey. While you’re over there, could you look up the number to animal control?”
Me: “…”
Sara: “…like…if someone caught a squirrel in her butterfly box…”
Me, stupidly: “A squirrel?”
Sara: “A mostly dead squirrel.”

Evie had been across the street at the park “catching butterflies” when she came running back shouting, “Mama! I got a squirrel!”

Sure enough, there in her butterfly box was a live squirrel. I think it’s safe to classify our reaction as “surprised”. Perhaps “puzzled”? “Freaked out”? “Horrified”? I don’t know. But definitely a strong reaction, I can tell you that much. Apparently Evie had caught it in her net and somehow gotten it through the tiny little hole into the bug box.

Despite Sara’s description of a “mostly dead squirrel” this thing had plenty of spunk. When Sara managed to get it out of the box into the alley, it ran in circles, rolled around on the ground, and generally acted like insanity personified. I don’t know for sure that it had rabies, but I do know for sure that something was wrong with that thing. In fact, later I watched a feral cat take it for wounded and try to make a quick meal, but it acted so crazy that even the cat was like, “No way, I’m not eating that, I’m out of here.”

Evie was pretty sad about the whole thing. She had been so proud about catching a squirrel (AS SHE SHOULD BE), and was so disappointed we were letting it go. “Evelyn, never, never, ever catch a squirrel again!” we told her. “I never get to do anything heroic!” she sobbed. “In books they always rescue hurt animals!”

She’s got a point there, and her heart is certainly in the right place. I just wonder what she’s going to bring home next…