Our winter routine of sitting on the couch watching television programs about billionaires (so many television programs about billionaires—hapless former billionaires, reality show billionaires, scheming mogul billionaires) was enlivened by the appearance of an unmistakeable rodent-shadow—and not a mouse shadow, a wait-a-second-could-that-be-a-rat shadow—flitting along the bottom of the bookshelf.
After a minute, rat panic subsided; the tail was too short and bushy, and the body wasn't that hunched rat-lump shape. So I crept over to the settee by the bookshelf, tucked my feet up, sat still and waited. The intruder reappeared: a flying squirrel.
Now, the thing about a flying squirrel is that it is utterly adorable. A little anime dream animal come to life, with gleaming twinkly obsidian eyes and teeny little paws. They don't really fly–they leap and glide from tree to tree, using flaps of skin called patagium—and when this one crept out, it had the ungainly charm of a tiny child dragging a bedsheet cape, its furry sides rippling along the floor. I watched as it sat up, peeked around, and darted back under the radiator cover.
Hijinks ensued: an overturned couch, frantic FaceTime calls to my family, a furniture-lined pathway to the fireplace, a refusal to exit up the chimney (not sure it got in that way, anyway), and a near-capture in a butterfly net—a successful plan until I got distracted by the cuteness. When I paused in admiration, it hopped out of the net onto my sweater (cue screaming), then my leg, before jumping to an armchair and gliding six feet across the room to the safety of another radiator cover. I apologized to it for the screaming, and eventually, it crept out again. We swooped the net down on top of it and guided it along the floor and out the door. When it (or its near relation) came back a couple of nights later, we all behaved much more rationally. Sean opened the front door and the flying squirrel politely scampered out—no screaming, nets, or furniture barricades required.
I suppose we should be more worried about having a flying squirrel show up in our living room—they can be a hassle in houses—but there's been no other squirrel signs or squeaks since those two visits. And maybe it's a measure of just how messed up things are that chasing a squirrel out of the living room felt like a giddy relief—a simple silly problem that to jump and flail and laugh at instead of everything else.
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Filed under surprisingly helpful: Hugh's butterfly net. Also, headlamps.
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Squirrel-catching garments and gear: Rollas overalls / Isabel Marant top / Womenswork leather work gloves / Fenix HM50R USB rechargeable headlamp / Gabriella Kiss oxidized bronze baby acorn earrings / Insect-catching net / Clarks Ashton flat shoe (crepe soles a bonus for quiet steps and sudden, non-slip leaps) / Bonne Maison squirrel socks.
