A Squirrel's Revenge

Fingers extended, I should have known what I was getting myself into.

Hi,

Last week I found myself in a store staring at my nemesis. My nemesis stared back, fingers extended to the heavens.

“Fuck you, too,” I thought. “Fuck you too.”

When I say “nemesis” I don’t mean the nemesis. But this taxidermied rodent did remind me of the squirrel that bit my finger several years ago, leading to a number of jabs in my butt to both punish me for my stupidity, and make sure I wouldn’t die in hideous pain from rabies.

A concerned text from a friend at the time.

Years on and I’m doing just fine — but I’m always a little weary around my friendly neighborhood squirrel, despite learning that no-one has ever been infected by rabies via a squirrel bite. Ever.

And so I got to thinking this particular “Fuck you” was for me, for demonizing this innocent creature with accusations of rabies. I grabbed him off the shelf, checking with the staff about the origins of this little creep.

I was told he was taxidermied and mounted by a guy in Alabama. Confined to a wheelchair, he often spends his spare time cruising the roadside, looking for roadkill to turn into something slightly humorous. That’s his living. And on that particular day, I was happy to contribute.

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I was in Chicago at the time, and had a series of flights ahead of me for some Webworm meet-ups in the US (photos here if you wanted to see them).

Travelling around with this fragile little guy seemed like a recipe for taxidermy disaster, so I went into a post office to ship him back to my little apartment in LA. I’d secured a small box to post him in, lining it with tissue paper for padding.

“I wanted to ship this to LA please?”, I said. “What is it?” asked the post office worker, a guy in his 30s with glasses and a soft voice. As I angled the box down and opened it, the man leapt back against the wall, eyes wide.

I proceeded to tell him not to worry, it was dead. He still looked terrified, so clarified that I had not done the killing: that it was taxidermied and preserved. This didn’t reassure him in the least. He was still terrified, telling me that under no uncertain terms could it be shipped.

His reaction had gotten the attention of his colleague, who was on the other side of the store. “What do you want?” she asked me. Expecting a more measured response, I turned towards her, the box still open. She screamed, and took several steps back.

At this point I felt like a bank robber doing a heist — the thing I grasped in my hands so powerful and fear-inducing that I might as well be holding a gun.

“No, no, no, we cannot do that,” she stammered.

At this point my disbelief at this reaction had been taken over by worry that I was causing them distress, so I thanked them and left. I realised that I’d been mostly smiling and laughing the whole time, trying to indicate, “This is all a bit silly, it’s fine, don’t worry!” but thinking about their reaction, they probably thought I was a psychopath.

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Out on the street, I checked my phone to see if shipping taxidermy was a sin in America. I figured if you could ship a gun, you could ship a squirrel giving the fingers.

It didn’t seem to be in violation of their laws, so I figured the staff I’d just encountered really hated squirrels.

I walked a few blocks down to a FedEx, careful to keep the box closed as I walked inside. At the counter, I asked a kind looking woman if I could ship taxidermy. “No way,” she said.

Now curious, they asked what I had in the box. Before showing them, I clarified that it was dead, ethically acquired, and professionally stuffed.

I opened the box.

The woman erupted in laughter. “FUCK YOU?!” she laughed, gasping. It was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. Her laugh attracted the other customers, who took turns posing with my little friend.

At UPS it was horror. Here it was a comedy. They loved it.

But they still wouldn’t ship it.

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And so that squirrel had its revenge on me. Its middle fingers should have been a clue, I suppose.

I realised that I’d have to cart this cursed thing around with me everywhere, keeping it safe through multiple car rides and plane trips. I felt a certain level of angst rising in me — an emotion that arrives easily in this quite frustrating world.

But then, like that FedEx employee, I laughed. I was travelling solo, and now I had a little travel buddy.

I reminded myself to try and laugh more at life’s small inconveniences. There’s enough heavy shit to save the anger for.

And so I carefully carried him around various cities in a little bag, taking him through security at airports with me as my carry on. Airport security both loved and hated him, but he made it through.

He made it home to my apartment, where he greets me every day.

I see him, and I remember not to get annoyed by the 100 or so annoying things that will present themselves to me over the next 12 hours.

“Fuck you, too” I think. And I get on with my day.

David.