It was too pitiful to see them. Squirrels, as a rule, will rarely or never eat together—as one springs up another springs down. If these two happened to be feeding at the same hour, it was always in different parts of the cage or of my room. There seems a sort of etiquette about this, and it is never transgressed. But the day before my little squirrels died, I saw them both huddled together on the floor of the cage. Peter’s little fore paw was over Ruby’s neck, and their piteous helplessness and feebleness were very touching.
It may be asked, why did I not take them into the warmth of my room when I first noticed something amiss? But I was afraid of adding to their distress—I was so firmly convinced that animals prefer to be let alone when they are out of sorts, and that nature cures in her own way with plenty of sleep. The nesting-box was six or seven feet from the floor of the cage and difficult to get at, through perches and the branches of the shrub that grew up inside against the wall. I ought to have unhooked the box and brought the squirrels inside altogether long ago, when day after day there was a black frost and a bitter biting north-east wind.
I believe now, looking back, that if I had done this I should not have lost them; but they were so nervous and shy, I was afraid of worrying and distressing them by changing their quarters.
Unfortunately, the wall of my pets’ cage faced north. The winter sunshine used to shine for an hour or so a day upon the top of the climbing pole, and in health this sunny perch used to be a favourite place with them. But when they were ill they never attempted to climb as high. Having quenched their thirst, and nibbled an atom of food, they struggled painfully to regain their box, and hid away for the rest of the day.
I felt it cruel to disturb them—“Sick animals curl themselves up and sleep alone in the dark,” thought I, “and they will be best left unmolested.” Besides, as I have said before, Bunty and Fritz had lived all through last winter in the same place, and I did not imagine that it could be the cold that was killing these two, more especially as the cold snap was all over—February came in mildly. Fritz used to come bouncing in to pay me a visit in the highest health and spirits, and in the garden squirrel-house was there not the future Mrs. Fritz extremely lively? They had managed to keep themselves well in spite of black frosts and biting winds.
Anything more different than a sick squirrel from a healthy one cannot be conceived. The eyes, instead of protruding like carriage lamps, become flattened and then sunk in, giving the impression of blindness. The whole expression of the face becomes altered from mischievous sprightliness, an intense vivacity, to a miserable, dumb suffering. The tail is never curled over the back, but hangs down dejectedly; the ears are far apart; and the movements, instead of being electric springs and jerks, are mere crawlings, and are evidently made with great difficulty, exhausting the poor little creature very much.
I have watched Ruby, consumed with thirst, peer over from the edge of her box, and let herself go with a feeble bundling sort of slither down the pole always used for ascents and descents. She would leap feebly, with pauses for breath between; and then, to watch her climb up again used to break my heart. It was only too evident that she found it a most exhausting performance. She would cling weakly, and wait for breath and strength to crawl up a few steps; then wait again, and finally hoist herself the few inches on to her box with panting effort.
