Meatball:  The true story of a squirrel, featuring amazing in-field photographs

Meatball owned the massive King Tree of Center Street.  Meatball was a sturdy, solid example of Oregon wildlife.  Fat and assertive, Meatball’s feeding became my responsibility after I moved into a house attached to Meatball’s yard.

Meatball was a massive squirrel.

Meatball was fat because some human installed a wooden throne on the King Tree of Center Street.  Apparently they kept it well stocked and it was THE spot to be for all local squirrels.

Turf wars erupted, allies were claimed and forsook, and Meatball defended his corn throne from all others.

Meatball had a girlfriend in her own, smaller, busted tree, who, due to less idiosyncratic characteristics, never earned a name.  Meatball’s girlfriend was shrill, slightly ratty, and hyper nervous, shrieking and chattering if a human or any other mammal ventured close to Meatball, Meatball’s tree, or the girlfriend’s tree.

Not even Meatball’s girlfriend could get a piece of that corn throne.

Meatball got crazy treats like ice cream cones filled with peanut butter…

Bananas coated in honey and grapenuts…

Full size candy bars coated in peanut butter.

This was a one time occasion.  Meatball got very shaky and disturbed after the chocolate.  Don’t feed squirrels chocolate.

Through the winter, Meatball got corn and stuck around.

But when the spring came around, a new squirrel was sitting in the tree, pretending to be Meatball as I went to dispense corn and take my daily photo… But this squirrel was different.  It was a very obviously male squirrel.

So if this was a male, what was Meatball?

Strangely, after her outing as female, Meatball was scarcely seen again.  The tree remained empty of both Meatball and the… girlfriend?  Boyfriend?  Female competitor?  Female lover?  Sister?  Mother?  Brother?

We will never know.

The male squirrel never came back either.

I do miss Meatball… the potential of seeing that little face in the window each morning, waving at me.

The distrustful little thing would never get close enough to eat out of my hand.  It’s nice for two reasons—one , that I didn’t touch a rodent, and two, that Meatball is truly a little warrior, a fat, cross, furry little warrior.

 

Rock on, Meatball, whatever gender you may be.