Shades of Grey, but Maybe Not Fifty

Never underestimate that word but. Oh, we all know those dreaded sentences like I’m not racist BUT or I’d love to help you BUT. It’s far more versatile than that, though. You learn to see it coming, and to know it’s implied even when it’s not actually spoken.

Well, here at the Ambrosia’s Ark Animal Sanctuary (the Ambrosia is after our founder, Ambrosia Hopwood, not the creamed rice) we’re not as hidebound (pun unintended, though we don’t have any cattle in at present anyway) as some others. We are happy to send dogs and cats to homes where there isn’t necessarily a garden that could be mistaken for a field or something that featured in Ground Force as long as it’s plain that home will be loving and responsible. We accept that in the real world people won’t buy more different kinds of feed for the birds than you see fragrances of air freshener on a supermarket shelf, and that feeding bread to the ducks isn’t the end of civilisation as we know it, and think it’s better to work with farmers and breeders, as far as possible, rather than see them as the enemy incarnate.

But there is still the But Factor (which sounds like some kind of exercise programme I should probably embark on, but I digress). Our boss – and to misquote Orwell, though we’re all equal, he’s still the boss – Mike Doyle, has a “thing” about non-native species. Oh, he’s come to terms with budgies and potatoes, but he has his limits. And one of those limit, that makes the unlamented Berlin Wall look like a piece of flimsy gauze in comparison, concerns squirrels. Again to misquote Orwell, Red Squirrel Good, Grey Squirrel Bad.

To some extent I can see where he’s coming from. Where we are in Cumbria – often described somewhat nebulously as On the Edge of the English Lake District – is also described, often by those in agreement with Mike, as one of the Last Refuges of the Red Squirrel. To him, though he would deny anthropomorphising, red squirrels equal Tufty, equal Holy Grail of conservation, equal little bushy treasure to be adored and nurtured. Whereas grey squirrels are tree rats (though oddly he rather likes rats) and destroyer of woodlands and vermin that have no place anywhere, let alone in this little refuge on the edge of the English Lake District where reds are royalty.

He intermittently assures us that he would never be cruel to a grey squirrel, but in the same tone of voice that he’d say he’d never be cruel to the infestation of fleas he was attending to on a dog brought in in a terrible state.

Well, all of that made life rather complicated when this morning two worried looking and slightly tearful schoolgirls brought in a little squirming bundle wrapped in a jumper (the Mum of that jumper’s owner is in for a nasty shock) and asked me if I could make him better. “We found him in the playground,” one of them said, turning still moist saucer-like blue eyes on me. “He’s hurt.”

I had my suspicions before I carefully opened the bundle, having put on my gloves first and relieved that the well-meaning children hadn’t, apparently, suffered any nips and scratches. Yes. It was a grey squirrel. My snap diagnosis was that one of his legs had suffered a bit of a mauling, but he was otherwise healthy enough, and – well, let’s be honest, the minute I mentally used the pronoun he instead of it I was going down the slippery slope. “We’ll fix him,” I said. “You were very kind to bring him in.”

“Thank you, Miss,” they chorused, and went on their way considerably happier.

I looked at the squirrel, and the squirrel looked at me. And I knew exactly what I ought to do, and told myself it would be quick and painless and if the girls asked, I could regretfully tell them that his injuries were more severe than I’d thought and though they’d be upset, it would teach them what Mike called a life lesson except that he’d probably say I shouldn’t tell the kind lie.

I carried on looking at the squirrel, and the squirrel carried on looking at me. His expression wasn’t exactly scared, but seemed to ask me, “You wouldn’t – would you?”

Mike wasn’t in that morning as he was at a conference, and Louise had phoned in to say, “Frances, I’m sorry, but I have this tummy bug that’s doing the rounds. But with Mike being off in Carlisle, you’ll be all by yourself ….”

“I can cope,” I said. “You just get back to bed and have some ginger tea. You know Tuesday is one of our quietest days.”

Actually it wasn’t, not really, it was one of those recent myths engendered by the fact that a couple of successive Tuesdays had, indeed, been quiet, but it was pure coincidence and for no logical reason.

Still, I took my chance. I attended to the squirrel’s leg, my initial diagnosis confirmed that it was painful and it would be a while before he was back to full hopping capacity, but it wasn’t broken, and there was no infection. He should be fine.

The use of pronoun set me on the path. The naming of names made me complete the journey as if I had stepped into a wormhole – the kind you have in outer space, not the kind you have on your front lawn. In a sudden fit of whimsy, I decided to call him Hopscotch, Scotty for short. Maybe because I was thinking about wormholes and space travel – the Scotty bit, I mean.

That night, Hoppy came home with me. I still had a suitable cage dating back to when I’d fostered the chinchillas. Mike had huffed and puffed a bit about them too, but as they would only ever be kept in captivity and present no danger to the Reds, he didn’t make too much of an issue of it. I had purloined some of the stash of food we had for the reds, thinking that if it was fine for the Favoured Ones, surely the Tree Rat would eat it (but I had a feeling I wouldn’t be using that phrase much longer, not as long as Scotty kept looking at me with those beady, challenging, and yet somehow trusting eyes) and I’d have to make other arrangements about feeding him soon enough. Of course I planned to release him back into the wild when his leg had healed. Or did I?

This was a day of meaningful eye contact. Ivan looked at me and looked at Scotty, and said, “And just who or what might this be?”

“A squirrel” I said, “As I imagine you know perfectly well.”

“A grey squirrel Frances.”

“Not being colour blind, I’m perfectly aware of that.” But I knew that I would be well advised to tone down the sarcasm. Ivan and I hadn’t exactly discussed squirrels much, but I suspected that though he might not have been quite so doctrinaire in the matter as Mike, he was not exactly well disposed to them, especially grey ones, and it was only natural.

Scotty made a valiant attempt to hop across the cage, and weighed up Ivan. And Ivan weighed up him. I know it’s a cliché to say that time sometimes seems to stand still but it did. Ivan weighed up him just as fixedly. They’re like a couple of kids in an out-staring competition, I thought, but knew it was more serious than that.

“You’re really quite determined about this, aren’t you?” asked Ivan.

“Yes I am.” I paused. “Ivan, I’m not trying to guilt trip you but ….” (okay, hands up! I was “but”-ing myself!)

“Okay, fair enough! You took me in. I know all about it. But you must admit that I am something of a – rarity.” At times he can be quite irritatingly arrogant, and he knows it.

“That’s what you think!” The voice was a strange one, in both senses of the word, and yet I knew at once where it came from. It was quite high and fluting but had a hoarse and earthy note to it as well.

And though it won’t all be plain sailing, I rather think that the three of us will get along well enough. My talking squirrel, my talking cat, and I!