“REGULAR SQUIRRELS—FREE TO GOOD HOME. NOT FOR EATING.”
I tipped my hat to his ethical disclaimer, but it was puzzling. Had the flying squirrels been “regular” the whole time? Had it taken the seller a month to realize they didn’t have wings? How many squirrels had been dropped from the roof before he finally gave up and realized they weren’t faking it? Were these regular squirrels free only because they all now suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and vertigo?
I imagined a horde of squirrels, all hunkered close to the ground as they stared in horror at their former friends who easily jumped from branch to branch. “YOU’RE GOING TO GET KILLED!” the squirrel would yell, and his former buddies would shake their tiny heads in pity, wondering what horrors their friend had seen to change him so. In my head, it was as if the squirrels were damaged Vietnam vets, shell-shocked and unable to cope with real life after the terrible things they’d had to witness.
Victor said I was being ridiculous, but I pointed out that it was also pretty ridiculous to give away squirrels that you could just set free, and he admitted he had no real answer to that.
The ads kept coming over the summer, and then very abruptly stopped. Most likely (Victor and I speculated) it was because the (probably very well-intentioned) man was eventually murdered by his own squirrels. But this morning, almost a year from the time since we’d seen his first ad, a new sign was up with the same distinctive handwriting. He was alive and the world was a better place for it:
I censored the phone number to protect them from prank calls. And because I want to keep all the sugar gliders for myself. Sugar gliders who, I half suspect, might actually just be mice with flabby underarms, and who have survived being thrown off the roof.
VICTOR: Wow. I don’t think I want to know of the situation you have to be in where you need a rat delivered so desperately that it can’t wait until morning.
ME: Ooh, I would.
VICTOR: Well, of course you would.
ME: Who wouldn’t want to know about an emergency rat situation where the emergency is that you NEED a rat. It’s like the exact opposite of every regular emergency rat situation ever. It sounds fascinating. We should call this guy just to see what his deal is. I bet he has great stories. I mean, who gives hairless rats to children? He’s like the bizarro-world Candy Man.
VICTOR: So call him. Pretend to apply for a free squirrel and see what his story is.
ME: I wonder what the application process is on that? It would be really depressing to get turned down for free squirrels.
VICTOR: True. “I’m sorry. We’re going to have to decline you. Your home isn’t even fit for squirrels.”
ME: Our home is pretty messy, but I think it’s at least fit for squirrels. I’d be like, “But our squirrels seem quite happy.” I’d totally appeal that ruling.
VICTOR: “I’m sorry, but your references didn’t check out.”
ME: “But our references were squirrels.”
VICTOR: “Right. And they’re not happy. Plus, there have been some reports of hate speech.”
ME: “What?”
VICTOR: “Last week you dropped a fork and yelled, ‘Rats.’ Then in January you complained that your computer wasn’t working properly and was acting ‘all squirrelly.’ We have people on the inside, you know.”
ME: “Hang on. Are those people the squirrels who live in my attic? Because they’re all high and they don’t know what they’re saying. Those squirrels are junkies and they are not to be trusted.”
VICTOR: “Ma’am, that was slander. You’ll be contacted by the squirrel civil liberties union for a statement. Plus, you need to stop referring to squirrels as ‘those people.’ Please get your shit together.”
ME: Wow. We sound . . . totally unfit to have squirrels. Now I don’t even want to call the guy, because I’m all nervous about being judged. I don’t even think I could pass the interview.
VICTOR: We probably shouldn’t apply for more squirrels if we can’t even manage to keep ours off the horse.
ME: ?
VICTOR: It’s another word for heroin.
ME: Yeah, I know what “off the horse” means. I just can’t remember how we got to the point where I’m defending myself against the imaginary accusations of a man who gives hairless rats to neighborhood children, and who apparently trusts the nonexistent squirrel junkies in the attic.
VICTOR: True. I don’t remember ever having these conversations before we moved to the country.
ME: Me either. Also, I just realized that I just went to a gas station in my pajamas to buy coffee. I just became a giant warning sign to others. I can’t decide whether this is a problem, or I’m just more comfortable here than I was in the city. Can it be both?
VICTOR: I dunno. What the hell happened to us?
ME: [after a few seconds of silence] Growth?
VICTOR: [nodding slowly] Growth.
And Then I Snuck a Dead Cuban Alligator on an Airplane