1
If my little brother Travis hadn’t been so crazy about animals, the War of the Squirrels never would have happened. You’re probably wondering what on earth I’m talking about, but if you sit down for a minute, I’ll tell you everything, even those parts that are best not talked about. Yep, I’ll tell you the whole stinking, underhanded mess. I doubt that anyone else will.
It all started because Travis never met an animal he didn’t want to adopt on sight. The trouble was, many of the animals he wanted to adopt had no interest at all in being adopted. Some of them got quite upset about it. In fact, some of them got downright violent about it, but that didn’t always stop him from dragging them home. The only thing that ever really stopped him was the sight of blood or guts or suchlike. (He had a touchy stomach and was prone to fainting.) Anyway, to understand what happened, we have to look back to springtime, the season when baby animals are born. They’re born in spring so that by the time winter comes, they’ll be big enough and tough enough to survive the cold and the lack of food. Spring was also the season when Travis was most likely to bring some kind of animal—any kind of animal—home.
We had a few barn cats who had kittens in the straw every spring, to Travis’s delight, and they kept him busy for a while. Then there was Idabelle the Inside Cat. She was the only one allowed inside; she lived in the kitchen and kept down the mice. Idabelle was also the only cat who’d never had kittens. That spring she grew fat from her steady diet of mice. At least that’s what we all thought.
Then one night she started pacing and yowling and, to our surprise, crawled behind the stove and gave birth not to a litter of kittens but to one very large kitten. Nobody had ever seen a kitten like this before. He was easily the size of two regular kittens. We called him Thud because he was such a bruiser. (I know you think this story is about squirrels, and it is. Trust me, I’m getting there.)
Our cook, Viola, who loved Idabelle, also doted on Thud. Travis did too, naturally. The only one not thrilled about him was Mother, who hadn’t counted on two cats living in the house. She had a hatred of fleas but was willing to put up with the baby for a while. There was no resisting Thud, he was that adorable. Idabelle happily nursed him in her basket by the stove, although they were soon overflowing the sides.
“Humph,” said Viola. “Looks like we need a bigger basket.”
She found an old laundry basket, lined it with a towel, and moved Idabelle and Thud into it. And that should have been all there was to tell.
But no. The story was really just beginning.
2
Viola and I were enjoying a glass of lemonade in the kitchen, admiring Idabelle and Thud, when Travis burst in from the back porch. He was holding to his chest a small bundle wrapped in a bandanna. Uh-oh. I knew what that meant. So did Viola.
She eyed him suspiciously. “What you got there? It better not be no live thing.”
Travis turned his best sunny smile on her, saying, “Don’t worry, it won’t take up much room. And we don’t even have to feed it. Idabelle will. I hope.”
He pulled back the flap of cloth. There on his palm lay a newborn squirrel, tiny, helpless, and cute as can be. (It turns out that baby squirrels can give kittens a real run for the money in the cuteness race.)
“Aww,” I said. I couldn’t help myself. Even the flinty Viola softened when she saw it. “Where’d you find it?” I asked.
“It was on the ground, I swear.”
I squinted at him. “You didn’t pull it out of the nest?”
“Never. I wouldn’t do something like that.”
Well, that was a big fat lie if ever I’d heard one. “Ha! I know you, Travis Tate, and that’s exactly the kind of thing you’d do. Don’t deny it.”
“That’s true,” said Viola, nodding. “The boy would do that.”
Travis flushed. “Well, okay, maybe I’ve done that once or twice before, but not this time, I swear!”
The squirrel coughed feebly.
“It was lying flat on the ground. It was going to die if I just left it there.”
The poor thing struggled to lift its head and fell back on my brother’s palm, exhausted from the effort. I’d seen many pitiful things in my life, but this was pretty near the top of the list.
“Are you going to get up and feed it during the night?” I said. “Something that size probably needs to eat every hour or so.”
Travis smiled.
“And don’t look at me,” I said, “because I’m not doing it.”
His smile grew bigger. “I thought Idabelle would do it.”
We all turned and looked at Idabelle nursing Thud in the basket. They were both purring loudly. Thud pawed at his mother’s fur, “making muffins,” as we called it.
I looked at the squirrel and said, “You’re going to…”
“I think it’ll work, don’t you?”
Viola muttered, “Sure, if she don’t eat it first.”
Travis took the tiny, limp figure and placed it up against Idabelle’s warm furry belly next to Thud. She looked at it in what I can only describe as surprise. Then she carefully sniffed it from head to tail. We all held our breath while she decided whether the newcomer was dinner or not. Then she started licking the baby vigorously, and we all sighed in relief. The squirrel started to nurse, and from that moment on, Idabelle treated it exactly the way she treated Thud. As family.
“I’ve been thinking about what we should call him,” Travis said. “How about Fluffy?”
“What?” I said. “That doesn’t suit him at all.”
“Sure it does. He’s going to have a nice fluffy tail when he grows up.”
“Fluffy is a cat’s name,” I said.
“Well, look, Callie,” he said, gesturing at the basket, “Idabelle already thinks he’s a cat, so that makes him sort of a cat. An honorary cat. Which means we can call him Fluffy.”
So Fluffy it was.
3
Mother swept through the kitchen, her long skirt swishing. She glanced once at Idabelle and walked briskly out to the back porch. Where she stopped, turned, came back inside, and pointed at the basket. She spoke very slowly: “What. Is. That. Thing.”
I looked around for Travis, who was, naturally, nowhere to be seen. Some-times he would cling to you worse than a sticker burr, but when you really needed him, he was gone.
I said, “Well, um, I really think you should ask Travis about that, uh, ‘thing.’”
“Travis is not here. Therefore, I cannot ask him about it. Yet you, Calpurnia, stand right before me. And that is why I am asking you.” She tapped her foot the way she did when her patience was running out. The more irritated she grew, the faster she tapped.
I knew that signal well, probably better than any of her other children.
“When were you going to tell me? Or were you all just hoping I wouldn’t notice it?”
“Uh, that’s Fluffy. It’s a … well, it’s a baby squirrel.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Her foot tapped faster.
“Travis found it on the ground. He brought it home hoping that Idabelle would take to it, and look!” I gestured toward the basket like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Fluffy and Idabelle and Thud lay tangled together in a ball of complete, furry happiness. “It worked! Isn’t motherhood grand?”
Mother narrowed her eyes at me, and I could tell she wasn’t finding motherhood so grand at this very minute. “This will never do. Fetch Travis right away. We can’t raise a wild animal in the kitchen.”
I found Travis in his room and told him what had happened. “We can’t just throw Fluffy out,” he said. “He’d die out there on his own. And Idabelle’s heart would be broken.”
“Then you better go downstairs and convince Mother. She’s really peeved this time.”
Travis had a long history of bringing home wild animals, but in the past he’d usually hide them away in the barn. Let’s see, there’d been a couple of skunks, an owl, a porcupine, countless cats and dogs and rabbits, you name it. Sometimes he got away with it, and sometimes he didn’t. Clearly this was one of those “didn’t” times.
I followed him downstairs and hid in the hallway while he went into the parlor to argue his case.
“I have noticed,” said Mother in a frosty tone, “that there seems to be a wild animal living in our kitchen.”
“Well, Mother,” said Travis slowly, “he’s not exactly what you’d call ‘wild.’ He’s already pretty tame, if you ask me. He lets me pet him and everything.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Yes, Mother, sorry. His name is Fluffy, and I found him on the ground. You can see he’s just a baby. If we keep him a little longer, he’ll have a fighting chance. And he doesn’t cost anything. And he’s no trouble, really. Callie and I don’t even have to get up in the night to feed him.”
What? Wait. Why was he dragging my name into this? For once, I was entirely blameless. I almost shouted, “Fluffy is not my fault!” But then I figured it was better to keep my mouth shut and not draw attention to myself. Mother disapproved of eavesdropping, although I don’t know why. I myself have always found it to be a perfectly good way of gathering information.
There was a pause while Fluffy’s fate hung in the balance. Then Travis pulled out his secret weapon: He started pleading with her. When the boy put his heart and soul into defending an animal, few could resist him. His soft heart and sunny smile were real forces to be reckoned with. My brother loved all animals and was convinced that the rest of the world did—or should—too. I almost felt sorry for Mother. She sighed, and I knew he’d won her over. At least for a while.
Text copyright © 2019 by Jacqueline Kelly
Illustrations copyright © 2019 by Jennifer L. Meyer