Peggy Townsend, steer

When Peggy Townsend offered me this post, she said she guessed I would have no other entries about steer. So far she is on the money with that.  Peggy is an award-winning journalist who added “novelist” to her resume when her marvelous first book, Safe Landings, came out in 2012.




I stood beside Irving with the needle in my hand. My fingers trembled. I didn’t want Irving to die.

Irving was my then-500-pound Hereford steer and he was as close to a best friend as I had. I’d met him when he was six months old and I was 13. We both had spindly legs and an awkward gait but it wasn’t long before Irving blossomed into a handsome, muscular steer. I, on the other hand, stayed skinny and ungainly. Some of the girls at school called me “grasshopper.” It wasn’t too far off the mark.

But now, Irving’s handsome head was drooping and he had a hot, horrible cough. Old Mr. Beard, who owned the dairy down the road, had come over as a favor to my family and listened to Irving’s chest.

“Ah-yep,” he said, “he’ll need something for that. He’ll die if you aren’t careful.” He’d seen too much to sugarcoat the truth. My stomach gave a Richter-scale lurch.

From a toolbox, Mr. Beard selected a thick needle, a plastic syringe, a brown bottle. He drew a syringe full of medicine from the bottle, gave Irving’s neck area a couple of sharp slaps, then slammed in the needle on the third blow. Irving jumped and skittered sideways. Old Mr. Beard stepped aside and waited. When Irving had calmed, Mr. Beard fitted the syringe to the needle and pushed the plunger.

“There you go,” he said and handed me the accouterments. Mr. Beard had 200 head of Holsteins to look after. I was supposed to give Irving another shot on each of the next two days.

I felt sick at the thought of Irving dying. Over the past months, I’d poured my heart out to him about the mean girls at my school, about the fact I barely had breasts, about my parents ordering me to chop off my long hair. I’d press my face into his warm bulk and sob at my miserable life. He’d turn and blown soft alfalfa breaths against my arm.

The next day, I stood beside Irving, the needle in my hand and the medicine-filled syringe resting on top of a post in his pen. My father was nearby but being a 4-Her meant I supposed to learn to be a rancher. I thought I might throw up.

I took the needle and gave Irving two slaps but when it came time to slam in the sharp sliver of metal, I couldn’t do it. What if I accidentally stabbed the needle into an artery and Irving bled to death? What if it broke inside him? What if Irving hated me? I was always an imaginative kid and now my mind was at full gallop.

I thought of Irving lying dead in the pasture and tried the needle again. This time, it bounced off Irving’s thick hide and fell into the straw. Tears blurred my eyes but I found the needle and tried again, then again. Each time, the needle ricocheted off Irving like he was made of granite.

I called for my father. He told me to do what needed to be done.

By now I was desperate and sobbing.

Only later, when I became a mom, would I realize why I was crying. That the side effect of loving something is bearing a gut-wrenching responsibility for it. That it is a burden that is beautiful and passionate and frightening. Back then, I could only feel the scary part.

I looked at my father through my gulps and hiccups, and turned to Irving. I gave him two great slaps and, with a sob so huge it nearly ripped my scrawny chest open, I plunged the needle home

I wiped my eyes and fixed the syringe to the needle. Then I pushed the plunger and filled Irving full of love.



Molly Gloss, dalmatian, dog

Molly Gloss is one of my favorite writers.  She can do anything, any genre, any time period, and make it the best book you’ll ever read, but she is known for The Jump-Off Creek and The Hearts of Horses.  A new book, much longed for, has been recently finished which is the greatest news a reader can get.

Here is her entry:

When my husband Ed was dying of cancer, our dog Buddy was 13 years old. These three events occurred during the last month of Ed’s life:

1. Ed was napping on a pulled-out futon in a room at the back of the house, with Buddy lying on the rug beside him. When our primary hospice nurse, Marcella, arrived, I was washing dishes in the kitchen—I told her to go on back to see Ed. Buddy knew Marcella—she had been coming to our house once or twice a week for two months. But when she stepped into the room he rose partway up and voiced a deep and ominous growl I could hear from the kitchen. He was ordinarily such a mild-mannered dog that in thirteen years I had never heard him growl except the play-growl he brought out for tug-of-war games. Marcella of course was startled and backed out of the room—it was clear this dog wouldn’t allow her anywhere near Ed. It wasn’t until I came into the room and said, “Buddy, it’s all right, it’s just Marcella,” that his anxious expression relaxed and he lowered himself down again. Ed had been worsening in recent days and I can only imagine Buddy was on guard duty—that he didn’t trust anyone outside the family, not even Marcella, unless I was there too, and could give the okay.

2. In the last two weeks of Ed’s life we had friends coming every day to bring meals and take Buddy for his walks. He never objected to these various strangers taking hold of the end of his leash—he went out twice a day happily.  One day the designated dog walker was Joy, who was not only our friend but also a hospice nurse herself. And my sister Pat was with me that day. This was February but the weather was unexpectedly mild and sunny. I hadn’t been out of the house for more than a month, so it occurred to all of us that, with both Joy and Pat at the house to keep an eye on Ed, I might get outside for half an hour and walk the dog myself. Buddy was reluctant to leave the house, though, and when we got to the sidewalk he simply stopped and sat down. I spoke to him, encouraged him, and finally pulled hard on the leash, but he stiffened his neck and wouldn’t budge. And again, that anxious look. So I took him back into the house. And when Joy took his leash he went happily out for his walk. It was clear: He and I were sharing guard duties. Both of us could not be gone at the same time.

3. In the last week of Ed’s life my sister stayed at our house to help me with care-giving. At night we spelled each other in three hour shifts. Ed by then had fallen into a coma but we had not yet seen the signs of imminent death that Marcella had prepared us for.  On this morning Pat and I were putting together something for breakfast—I had checked on Ed not more than a minute earlier—when suddenly Buddy began to bark and race through the house, from the back door to the front door and then back again, barking in a high, anguished way, a strange bark I had never heard from him. I went to the back door, checking for someone there, thinking someone must have rung the door bell, when my sister called to me from the living room, “Oh, Molly, I think Ed is gone.”  Marcella’s belief in the science of medicine and her belief in pain-relieving drugs was equally matched by her belief in the spiritual and the unknowable. It was Ed’s angel arriving, or his soul departing: this is what she told me Buddy had seen or sensed. I only wish I knew.

Molly Friedrich, dog

The incomparable Ruth Ozeki has sent a counterpost, a riposte, if you will, to MOLLY FRIEDRICH, cat.

Dear Karen,

I just read the wonderful post entitled “Molly Friedrich, cat” and felt compelled to respond with “Molly Friedrich, dog.”

Now, I’m not saying that Molly Friedrich is not a fabulous agent. She is, and I love her. I’m just warning you that if she ever tells you that the dog ate your book, it’s not a lame excuse or a figure of speech. She’s serious.




Joann Rose Leonard, deer

For today’s post, I am deeply grateful to Joann Rose Leonard, author of the haunting and highly recommended novel, The Healer of Fox Hollow.



“I know this sounds silly,” I said. “But tomorrow I’m doing a workshop in a rural school. And I’m worried about driving a brown car through the woods in deer season.”


“Just don’t wear antlers,” my husband replied.


The next morning, a white sign was taped to the car’s antenna. PERSON. DON’T SHOOT!


It was raining as I headed south on I-99. A cold, steady, late November rain. Still miles from my exit to the hunter-filled woods, I was lulled by the rhythmic swoosh of windshield wipers and the hypnotic red and white lights mirroring from the slick asphalt.


Suddenly a brown blur hurdled from the far side of the highway. The bounding doe slipped on the wet macadam and skidded on her flank across busy lanes. Flat on her side, she came to a stop directly in the path of my fast approaching headlights. With cars in front and to the side of me there was nowhere to veer. No way out. That’s when I felt it. The sharp stab pressuring through my flesh, driving to bone. Skin ripping off curves that fit in and around those I love.


Then, an instant before impact, the thrashing deer righted itself, leaped across the highway and disappeared into the trees on the side of the road. For the longest time, I couldn’t stop shaking. Two animals colliding with death. How swiftly it came, how unexpected. And a reprieve…at least for the time being.

Molly Friedrich, cat

I mentioned to my completely fabulous new agent, Molly Friedrich, that I was surprised to have gotten no cat posts.  Dog posts arriving at a fair clip, but nothing about cats at all.  Within hours, she sent me the following.  Talk about a full service agency!  And she can write, as this lovely entry demonstrates:


Something that has always interested me is watching the ways in which we divide and sub-divide our worlds. Those who are pregnant and those who aren’t. Those country mice as opposed to the city slickers. Those who have cancer and those who don’t. The girls who grow up riding horses as opposed to those who are obsessed with ballet. But the greatest divide of all seems to be the dog people versus the cat people. I’ve always been a dog person, inarguably. But once our cat Sammy arrived, I certainly didn’t switch my allegiances, I just watched over the course of years as he managed to completely blur the lines of my dog-centric world. Let me explain how this treacherous behavior evolved: first, his arrival. When 9/11 happened, bringing Manhattan to its knees, my writer Sheri Holman was nine months pregnant. She crept out into her Brooklyn, postage-stamped sized backyard on that devastatingly beautiful late summer afternoon, wondering how she was ever going to manage to raise her baby into a world that had tipped over onto itself. When Sheri heard a feral cry, she spotted Sammy and caught him just before he could scramble away into the hedges. She brought him to a vet for shots and kept him for another week or so. Finally, sensing the pending arrival of the baby, her husband insisted that Sheri give the kitten away. “We already have four cats and a baby on the way! That’s not counting Ibrahim!—(their parrot of a decade, who calmly ate dinner from their plates)—You have to find a home for this kitten. Call Molly.”



I’d always heard that cats were notoriously independent and stand-offish; Sammy was different. He communicated with all of us, not plaintively meowing into the winds, but guiding us to learn his feline calls for food, water, whole fat milk, NOT two percent, sardines, the back door open, please, etc. He jumped on the trampoline with the little kids and insinuated himself into our hearts and daily lives. He tolerated the two undisciplined pound dogs who seemed sloppy and imbecilic in contrast to his sleek, athletic elegance. He quickly identified himself as my daughter, Lucy’s cat, sleeping on her chest when she was home, waiting for her to arrive, when she was not. They developed a distinctly secret language; certainly, I’ve never known any cat to come when he is called! Sammy seemed to know how to flourish in a large, distracted and noisy household. All was well until two Springs ago, when he first encountered what I can only call THE NEST.



Cats and birds, well, yes, it was inevitable, I suppose! But nothing prepared me for the viciousness and violence that marked that Spring. A couple of sparrows began building their nest right in the upper corner of our front porch. We all tried to discourage them but they persisted. Mud crud was removed, only to be re-attached to the porch corner the next day. Lots of daily bird shit, lots of territorial scrambling. THE NEST got built in spite of our efforts and one sad afternoon, I came home to what I’ve come to call The Great Homicide: Sammy had crept up a gutter spout and tipped over the nest, toppling the five baby birds onto the porch floor. None survived the fall and I’m afraid a couple of them were calmly decapitated by Sammy. That’s horrid, of course, but here’s what struck me as so weird: the sparrows never forgave him. For the rest of that Spring, and right through Summer, Sammy was tortured. When he went outside, the sparrows in the Hemlocks would somehow signal to one another that The Enemy had arrived. They would gather as a vast army and rush to attack him from all angles. Scores and scores of them. When he went outside, he could barely make it to the car, where he’d spend most of the afternoon, peering nervously to see if the coast was free. It never was; he’d have to wait until a person arrived to guard him back to the front door. It was like Alfred Hitchcock in Technicolor. Sammy went slightly mad during that season, we actually got him some tranquilizers; he’d wake up startled and hysterical, unrested and jittery. He’d hear the cries of the Sparrows and whirl about in tortured circles.



The following Spring, the Sparrows reappeared but this time, we blanketed the porch ceiling in chicken wire, we over-populated the porch with fake owls, we played calming videos for Sammy, hoping the birds would find a new home. Anywhere but here, indeed! These days, Sammy still goes outside, but he lurches for the odd field mouse, he keeps to himself when it comes to birds. Chasing dental floss along a rug is just about his speed, he’s finally mellowing into a new normal and that’s just fine with all of us!



Me, ticks

Since I’ve gotten no entries yet from the bug community, I am stepping in.  This is a post about ticks, but the ticks of yesteryear, before they became famous disease vectors and back when they were just gross.  My father and mother were great campers, so we were none of us strangers to the post-camping tick search.

We lived in Indiana then and we went very occasionally to the big city of Chicago to buy my mother’s shoes.  She was a polio survivor and needed custom-made footwear.  So this is a memory from one of those trips.  Two memories, actually.

The first is that I saw a plush purple lion in a store window and wanted it desperately.  I did not get it (in retrospect it was probably extremely ugly, because… purple lion) but I like to think my parents would have provided if they’d known that at the age of 63, out of all the ceaseless requests of my childhood, this is the one I’d remember.

Secondly, I found a tick in the hair near the base of my skull and freaked out.  My father removed it immediately with tweezers and dropped it onto the sidewalk.  It was enormous – I don’t think I’d ever had a tick go undiscovered for so long.  It was a balloon of blood; you couldn’t see its appendages at all.  I know that I must have been quite young, because I have a vivid visual of the busy Chicago street and my perspective appears to be about thigh-high.  Dozens of legs, dozens of shoes, hurrying towards and past me and in the midst of all that city busyness, completely out of place and out of time, the very large, very bloated tick on the sidewalk.


Marian Wood, squirrels (and one monkey thrown in)

Part Two from Marian Wood’s series of wild life encounters.  Read it together with Kristin Livdahl’s earlier squirrel entry.  Apparently there is more to squirrels than meets the eye.  They are organized and they have demands!

The Great Squirrel Assault

Tony and I bought a top floor apartment in a small four-story coop in Brooklyn in 1984. All went well until one morning I awoke to the sound of bird feet in the crawl space above our bed. Clearly, a bird was trapped there. I had an author who was really good about wildlife and I asked for help. “Nothing you can do except wait for the bird to die and then fumigate.” Urg.  But he was right. Pigeons had managed to make their way through the front façade and we were all prisoners. The smell was ghastly. Then summer turned toward winter and one morning I awoke to the pitter-patter of running feet. I knew that sound. Back when we were newly returned to New York, my parents bought a very old Victorian house. There were squirrels and we all thought they were terrific—and fed them richly. Then, as winter arrived, they moved in. Again, in the crawl space, this time between the second floor and the third. Turned out NY State had a ruling against exterminating squirrels. Our gardener showed my mother how to deal with them: Watch for their entry (a great old wild cherry tree in the back yard), wait until they left for the day, climb up and find the entry hole and fill it with camphor, wait until they returned and decamped, then seal the hole, cut off the tree limb they were using to jump the roof, and voila. So when 25 years later my husband and I were faced with the same problem, we wondered who would help us find the hole and get rid of the creatures. Turned out, we didn’t have to look far. Our garden floor neighbor, it being chilly, decided to light a fire in his fireplace. The sound of squirrel nails across the ceiling running in panic told me they had abandoned ship.


But here is the end story: The next day, they attacked every one of the fairy lights he’d hung in his garden. Chomp chomp.


Ever since a squirrel got trapped between the front doors in that Victorian house in Brooklyn, I have to admit I have hated them. It was truly terrifying. How to get it out without being bitten? My mother managed to do the deed. Brave woman. And we never fed them again. Then there was the time we went to Nuevo Laredo in Mexico (from the Army Air Corps base in San Antonio) and an organ grinder’s monkey grabbed me by the hair and would not let go. Can’t say I have loved monkeys since—sorry. Sometimes things just happen—and they leave a scar.

Doris Ober, Lakeland terrier

This blog is tailor-made for Doris Ober, a brilliant editor and writer of the book The Dogtown Chronicles, Our Life and Times with Sheep, Goats, Llamas, and Other Creatures, from which this lovely piece is excerpted with her permission.



Richard and I found Woody through a dog rescue group that specialized in terriers. Woody was a tan-and-brown Lakeland terrier, a perfect-sized dog, I thought, who wouldn’t shed, but who we would have to take to the doggy beauty salon every few months, unless we wanted something that looked more like a dust bunny than a dog.

Woody was four months old and had been living for the past two months with a recent widower. The dog was too energetic for an old man, he said, and he felt bad when he went out and had to leave the little guy alone. After his wife died last year, his children thought it would be a good idea for him to have a dog. “They should have gotten a dog, if it was such a good idea,” he said.

Richard and I went home and talked about it. Woody looked just like the dog who played the role of Asta in The Thin Man movies. This was a popular series in the 1930s and 1940s starring Myrna Loy and William Powell as Nora and Nick Charles, a terribly suave yet adventurous and madcap couple who solved crimes. I think part of our adopting Woody had to do with an image of ourselves as a potentially madcap couple who would drink martinis, have adventures, engage in witty dialog, and drive a dashing little sports car with a perfect little dog (who would occasionally cover his eyes with his paws over our shenanigans) in the back seat.

And so several days later Woody came home with us, with his toys and his pillow and a box of his favorite kibble.

# #

Woody didn’t like to play ball or fetch sticks. He didn’t chase cats, but he did like to chase tires and birds. He liked to bury things. He liked to run as hard as he could. He was wound up, over-wound, and could never run himself down. In the beginning we took him everywhere with us, but he developed a strange obsessive-compulsive behavior in the car. He’d lick the windows. He’d lick all the windows, all over, madly. He was in constant motion, he wouldn’t sit still. He’d run over passengers to get to their windows, the driver would have to fight him to keep him off the windshield. Soon we caged-in the back of Richard’s Trooper, and that’s where Woody rode from then on, licking the back window as though it was ice cream.

Woody’s tire-chasing meant that sometimes, if we couldn’t take him with us and had to leave him at home, we would have to try to sneak away. We had fences, but they were not fine fences, so they didn’t cause Woody a minute’s delay in breaking out, chasing our car’s tires down the driveway, running as fast as he could, and then galloping after us on Route One, still running as fast as he could, as he loved to do. We’d be watching our rear-view mirror and we were rarely disappointed. Or rather, we were almost always disappointed. We’d pull over, Woody would leap into the car, panting wildly, and go to work on the windows.

If one of us was home, however, and the other had to leave, you would think the one should be able to hang on to the dog long enough for the other to get successfully away. And so when I left the house one day at 8:30 a.m. for an appointment in the city, and left Woody and Richard together with the newspaper, one having coffee and the other chewing a pig’s ear, I didn’t expect to see Woody flying down the road behind me nearly three miles later. I was furious and crying when I shoved Woody into Richard’s arms, made some absurd flailing effort to pummel him, and ran away just knowing I was going to be late. Why did we have to have a dog!

That evening when I came home, Richard was wary but solicitous. He led me down to his workshop, where Woody stood expectantly behind the sliding-glass door. Richard pointed out a long narrow tube, about five inches in diameter, attached vertically to the side of the deck above us. This vessel was filled with water and there was a spigot at the bottom. Directly under this water canister was a red plastic bowl, suspended by wire like a hot-air balloon basket and by more rigging and a pulley to the shop’s sliding-door handle.

Richard turned the spigot a quarter turn. Water dripped out of the tube. The bowl received the water. After five minutes the bowl was a quarter full and had begun to lower itself, pulling against the heavy glass door of Richard’s shop, which began to slide open. The bowl settled down on the ground after 20 minutes when the water source was exhausted. This opened the door wide enough for Woody to get out and would provide water for him while we were away. That 20-minute head start was enough. Woody somehow knew it wasn’t worth the chase at that point. Or maybe he had already forgotten us.


Carla Freccero, Rat

Today’s entry is by Dr. Carla Freccero, whose class on animal studies was an inspiration to me while writing my newest novel.   She is the current head of the Literature Department at UC Santa Cruz and a list of her books and articles can be found at the link. She is a wonderful teacher.  I know this from personal experience.

Here is her post:


My favorite encounters with non-human mammals (my sense is that only mammals encounter one in the way I am going to describe) happen when an animal sees me, really sees me and I see myself being seen. I am so used to wandering this amazing semi-wild town—Santa Cruz—and its environs, watching, unseen (or so I imagine), the non-human life around me (and here I mean all the bugs, beasts and birds, as well as the flora, that populate, and sometimes overpopulate, this place), that I am completely startled when a non-human looks back. For a moment I see myself as one of them, a mammal, and for a moment I think I see him or her gauging the danger I represent. I rarely regard non-humans as dangerous—I’ve never met a mountain lion, but there isn’t much else, except the Black Widow (and she’s not that poisonous), the Brown Recluse (who definitely is), and the occasional skunk (because of the startle reflex that is so noxious to humans and other mammals) that represents a danger to me, the clear top-of-the-food-chain predator in this ecology. But humans in Santa Cruz are generally a friendly lot, when it comes to so-called Nature: most cherish being able to live among the wild ones to whom this place belongs, and so represent no threat. In any case, if I am still and if I carefully arrange my body and my gaze in postures of passivity, submission or general non-threat, the creature overcomes his or her fear and simply looks.


But one encounter in particular from recent years haunts me.


I had a rat problem. I live in the country, and, well, rats do too. They live here, with or without the rest of us (unlike the rats of New York City or other urban areas who, should those areas ever be emptied of humans, we are told, would quit the premises within a week or two). My house is an old house and not airtight. It is also built into the hillside: parts of it are underground, separated from the earth by what are called “rubble” walls, river rock with very little cement between in order to permit the rock to breathe in a rainstorm (it leaks, but only a little) and, presumably, to shift but not collapse in an earthquake. One winter, when it was very cold and wet, the rats, especially, I think, the moms, decided to move in. Now, the rats here are gorgeous, with clean glossy brown coats, nothing like the scary caricature of dirty urban vermin normally conjured when there’s talk of an infestation. They are also huge, big enough for my dogs to attack but much too imposing for most of the neighborhood cats. The problem I’d been experiencing had to do with sound (they shrieked and hollered in my walls at night; rats are very loquacious), and with smell. Rats, especially nesting mothers, produce a strong unmistakable—and to the human olfactory senses, very unpleasant—odor. After a week of setting traps that worked for the first two days (after which the rats, intelligent beings that they are, changed their routes, foregoing the delicious peanut butter and cheese lures I had prepared), I used—once and only once, I swear, and never again, I promise—poison. And then, one day, I came home, and as I approached my kitchen I saw, perched on the counter, a very large rat. She sat there, aware of my presence, and looked at me. I stood there, aware of hers, and pondered my dilemma. I had no idea what to do. As I walked cautiously toward her, she moved away, returning to the crevice from which she had apparently emerged. And as she departed, I noticed a smear of blood trailing behind her and knew that she was dying. Rat poison causes internal bleeding; that is how the rat who ingests it dies. Now, I know that humans hate rats with a passion, and I know that I, though not hating them, did not want one in or near my shelter. But I did not, till that moment, know how viciously sadistic human methods of eliminating them, including my own, could be. As it turned out, the rat exacted her revenge, albeit unwittingly; she died behind my kitchen counter somewhere near the rubble wall, and for weeks I could smell the rotting corpse, reminding me of what I had so willfully and yet so thoughtlessly done. But there was that moment when we exchanged gazes—she with the eyes of a dying mortal, and I with the eyes of a murderer, newly conscious of the enormity of the crime I had committed against her.



Kristin Livdahl, red squirrels

Today’s post comes via Kristin Livdahl. Kristin is a good friend and a wonderful writer.  She works for an animal welfare association, assuring the good condition of animals in her local shelter.  Check out her novella “A Brood of Foxes,” published by Aqueduct Press.
What follows is a story about how scary cute creatures can be:


One summer during college, I drove up from the Twin Cites to visit a friend in Two Harbors north of Duluth and we decided to do a short trip in the nearby Boundary Waters Canoe Area. As canoe trips went, it was a lazy one, just one portage and a couple of nights at a single camp. It was early enough in the season that we had our choice of campsites and we chose a pretty spot in a clearing on a small island. We thought the island would protect us from bears. We found out later from a passing fisherman that that was far from true. A bear made an almost nightly pass of the island, walking right through camp as he swam from one side of the lake to the other. A bear had ruined a previous canoe trip for me, leaving four adults with six hungry kids, a pack of soggy saltines and a long day of canoeing to get back to civilization. The crafty bear had climbed a tree and pulled down the rope on one side until the pack of food swung close enough to be snagged. My dad had held my hand up to one of the monster claw marks on the tree. We were all very glad the pack was kept away from camp and that we’d slept though it. This isn’t about bears, though.

The first night, we had a quick, cold dinner after setting up camp, hoisted the big, canvas Duluth pack up on a tree branch and crashed. I had to chase down a couple of the empty packages that had held our dinner. We assumed the culprits were some of the numerous small wildlife hanging around the campsite but didn’t really think anything of it. The next morning, breakfast was pancakes made on the campfire and that’s when we noticed the little red squirrels. They crept up to us as we ate and one succeeded in grabbing a pancake right off the pan. We spent the day exploring the lake by canoe and swimming in the rocks at the landing near the campsite. We made dinner as the sky started to darken and that’s when the squirrels began an all out assault, trying to steal food from our plates and the pans. We were relieved when we were finally able to hoist the pack back up the tree. A clever little squirrel climbed down the rope, and kept trying to crawl under the tightly closed flap. After it returned after we shooed it away a few times, I picked up a fallen tree branch and snuck up to the tree. All I could see was its tail peeking out from under the flap. I hit the tree as hard as I could making a pretty loud noise and shaking the tree and the squirrel darted out and disappeared into the leaves. The woods around us became dead silent. I looked at my friend and she shrugged. I put the branch down and started back to join her at the fire. Suddenly, the air filled up with the chittering of a million angry squirrels. I looked up to see them gathered on branches surrounding the entire clearing and I had a brief flash of our bones lying in the campsite, picked clean by sharp, nut-breaking teeth. The scolding diminished over time but picked up any time we moved. Our tent was off to one side, right next to the woods and far from our fire pit, but being inside made me feel safe enough to sleep. I woke to the sound of rain dropping on the tent, only enough to wonder why the weather report had said it would be clear, and drifted back to sleep. The next morning, we exited the tent to find twigs and acorns piled four inches high all around its base. We didn’t say anything to each other as we packed up the canoe, but I knew we would never be camping on that island again.