On Monday, I was in a room full of squirrels. Shelves and tables held a semicircular ring of crates, housing squirrels of different sizes and weights. Most still had their eyes closed. They reach forward with tiny clawed hands, gripping the end of a rubber nipple, pawing the air as they drink, sometimes folding their paws on top of each other with blissful expressions. The messy drinkers get foamy milk mustaches, which are hilarious, but have to be removed before they cake into yellow masks. Some are being treated with subcutaenous fluids and squeal like they're being murdered, although they go from wrinkly dehydrated to plumped in minutes. Drugging adult squirrels is more of a challenge, and involves a heavy leather glove, and being very quick. The closing shift had many more people than usual, so we wrapped up our feeds and meds and projects early and had time hours to devote to fixing and cleaning things that fall by the wayside in the chaos of an understaffed animal hospital.
I wrote this sitting on the back step looking at a Texas sunset - the colors you'd expect from a Western, pinks and purples over a gray green live oak and scrubby cedar hill line, topped with low bands of white clouds. The sky rose to pale yellow and paler blue, arching into a dusky blue sky. The vet tech intern came in over dinner to share jaguar photos from today's sedation. It's now "late" at night (930 pm), and very much time for bed here in the land of the head-cold-ridden in the Texas Hills.
Good night, world.
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