3B
“It’s nice to be able to use your mailbox.
Everything’s so instant now that it’s nice to
take a second and write. I just wrote four
pages to my friend (at Wayne) ... I send tea
with my letters to her, too.”
– LSA freshman JESSICA LEININGER, while writing a
letter Tuesday night
ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHERYLL VICTUELLES
I was bitten by a squirrel
I
have met the devil. He
has a bushy tail. Let me
explain.
On a dry February morning
freshman year, my friends and I
met by the Cube to travel to Penn-
sylvania or Indiana or somewhere
like Indiana and Pennsylvania.
Iowa?
I stood with Karibou (his real
name is Adam — no explana-
tion necessary). We were talking
about something light — lamps or
feathers, can’t remember which
— when something distracted
us: a squirrel, the size of a micro-
wave, scuttling beneath a bare-
branched tree. I held out my hand
and performed my self-taught
squirrel call:
Tk-Tk-Tk-Tk-Tk.
He advanced. Cautiously, at
first, then closer and closer, until
his wet, disease-infested nose
grazed my middle finger. Then,
because I didn’t have food, he
scurried away. It hurt like hell.
“Damn,” I thought and said.
Where would I get food? Iowa?
I turned. Karibou was eat-
ing cookie crumbs out of pink
Tupperware. A sign, I decided,
if not from God then from the
squirrels.
“Hey man,” I said, all coy.
“Could I have some of those cook-
ie crumbs?”
Karibou paused, thought and
said, “Only if you use them to feed
the squirrel!”
Me: “You know I will!”
Karibou: “Hellz yeah.”
And so it was.
I placed the cookie crumbs
on the ends of my fingers and
approached the squirrel. He was
staring at me with what I’d later
recognize
as
I-can’t-tell-the-
difference-between-crumbs-
and-fingers eyes. At the time, I
thought it was the hey-friend-
wanna-hear-a-forest-song
look.
Mistakes were made.
Tk-Tk-Tk-Tk-Tk.
A few steps closer.
Tk-Tk-Tk-Tk-Tk.
He scuttled up to me.
Tk-Tk-Tk-Tk-Tk.
There was animal in his eyes,
but also brotherhood. Or was that
a fruit fly?
Tk...Tk – Crunch.
Pain.
Shock.
Confusion.
Incomprehension. Synonyms.
He bit my middle and index
fingers, dug his teeth deep into
my skin. Sharp, unnatural pain
coursed through me — also,
betrayal.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-
HHHHH,” I said.
The squirrel said nothing. His
mouth was full.
I tried to pry him loose, but his
teeth were latched into my fingers
like hooks in fish lips. I tugged and
grunted and tugged and moaned,
but no give. My hand was too deli-
cious.
I panicked. What to do! Lose
my fingers? Don’t be dramatic.
Scream louder? On it. Call my
parents once a week? Irrelevant.
Then, ol’ Alex thought of some-
thing he hadn’t before:
Say, I’m stronger than a squir-
rel.
With a mighty yank, I pulled
my arm. My hand followed. Eyes
closed, teeth clenched, I threw
my fingers back and up like a jazz
dancer (is that a thing?). The
squirrel’s bite loosened, and I was
free!
But don’t cheer yet, friend.
Seriously, sit down, Clare. The
worst was still to come.
Over my head, a fat brown
shape the size of a stunted tod-
dler sailed twenty feet through
the air and landed – thud – by the
Cube. I’d chucked him. My God,
I chucked a squirrel! Balls. He
gathered his wits, gave me a rep-
rehensive look and left. A Bite and
Run.
I cradled my blood-soaked fin-
gers and said things like, “How!”
and “Why!” and “Hellz no!”
Then, I composed myself,
washed my cuts and called Uni-
versity Health Services. “Squir-
rels don’t have rabies, hun.” Phew.
All I needed was a tetanus shot
within the past seven years, which
I had. (High-fives self in face!) No
tetanus here. (Just deep, incur-
able emotional scars.)
Before I could hang up, find
a Star Wars band aide and call
my therapist (Mom), the nurse
offered some advice.
She: “You’re not supposed to
feed the squirrels.”
Me: “Well, now I know, but it
was fat so... ”
She: “You’re especially not sup-
posed to feed the fat squirrels.”
Me: “Well, madam, I assumed
that because it was fat, it’d been
fed many times. (I cough. My voice
gets higher.) I assumed it was
tamed. I figured it might be jolly!”
She: “Ah-heh-heh. No ... heh.”
That was three years ago. I’m
older now, taller. I drink whisky
(1/8 whisky, 7/8 coke). I think
about more things, but for shorter
time and with less depth. I’m an
adult. And I’m afraid of a small
woodland creature. Because he’s
still out there. Waiting.
If you see him, call me. He’ll be
the one stubbing out a cigarette,
slipping on a pair of sunglasses
and popping the collar of his
“Hell’s Squirrels” black leather
jacket.
His name is Nuts the Ripper,
and he is dangerous.sure a mir-
acle, in the form of a sex tape, is
in his imminent future. Maybe
that’s why Selena’s doing all that
yoga?
B Y A L E X B E R N A R D
LUNA ANNA ARCHEY/DAILY
THOUGHT
BUBBLE
Wednesday, September 16, 2015 // The Statement
Magazine Editor:
Ian DIllingham
Deputy Editor:
Natalie Gadbois
Design Editor:
Jake Wellins
Photo Editor:
Luna Anna Archey
Creative Director:
Cheryll Victuelles
Editor in Chief:
Jennifer Calfas
Managing Editor:
Lev Facher
Copy Editors:
Hannah Bates
Laura Schinagle
Emma Sutherland
THE statement