When I was growing up, I had many pets: dogs, cats, two parakeets, a raccoon, and a mouse. But none of them imprinted on my life like Rupert.
I am unsure how my grandfather acquired Rupert, but he gave him to us shortly before we moved to Alabama for the summer. In Alabama, Rupert lived in our bathroom, and by the end of the season, the wooden edges and corners in the room were quite chewed! As rodents, Squirrels must wear down their ever-growing teeth so they don’t grow too long to use.
Rupert’s primary diet was peanuts, so there were plenty of peanut shells in the bathroom. One day, I was asked to walk to the store and buy some.
“I need some peanuts, please!” I said to the man behind the counter.
“Shelled or unshelled?”
Of course Rupert needed nuts with shells, so that he could open them.
“Shelled,” I said.
When I got home, I discovered that shelled meant the opposite of what I thought. I still think it curious, that ‘shelled’ means that something has the shell off. To this day, I am afraid to attend a party designated as 'clothed.' I am not sure what it means.
When we decided to move back to Florida, my parents bought a wire, cylinder rotisserie as a carrying cage for Rupert. I was glad it was new, because it was made for barbequing chicken, not for transporting squirrels. I would hate for the lingering scents of Sunday dinners past to frighten our furry-tailed critter.
Once in Florida, Rupert went back to my grandfather. He built a big cage for him in the back yard next to the tool shed. Inside the cage was an entire wooden orange crate to serve as sort of a living apartment. Before long, the cage floor was thick with empty peanut shells, and the orange crate was showing signs of dental exercises.
A strong relationship grew between Rupert and my grandfather. In fact, Rupert no longer allowed anyone to touch him but grandfather. He was now exclusively grandfather’s pet.
This went on for years.
My grandfather was a landscaper and held a number of contracts for people who owned cottages around Trout Lake. Many of them lived out of state and visited their cottages only occasionally. When I was about 12 years old, I helped grandfather with the landscaping. That meant I mowed grass. He did all the artistic work.
At this time, Rupert had been transferred to one of the homes at Trout Lake, and lived in a large screen porch that was blanketed in peanut shells. However, at Trout Lake Rupert was allowed to run free while we were there, and he loved it when I chased him during our lemonade breaks from mowing. I would chase him across the green lawns, and he would run like lightening until he would stop and turn around to face me, his heart rate up and his little body heaving. I would quit running and creep slowly toward him with my hands outstretched. I would walk right up to him and bend down with my hands to grab him—and he would dart between my legs to begin the chase again.
One day, we were going through the familiar paces. He was facing me ready to dash. I reached down with both hands, and he didn’t run. I picked him up and became the second person allowed to touch him! From then on, I could hold him as well as grandfather could. Grandfather, Rupert, and I built a lasting three-way relationship that summer.
When Rupert came back to grandfather’s home at the end of summer, there was no screened porch for him and no large cage. Rupert was allowed free range. In addition to the trees, Rupert ran the planks Grandfather set up as runways from the roof of one outbuilding to another. Rupert built a nest in one of the oaks, and grandfather was excited. Perhaps Rupert was a female after all and would produce little squirrels, but that did not happen.
Rupert rarely strayed long from the yard, but one day he was missing. We did not see him for several days, and it was the hunter, himself, who told us what happened.
The hunter was hunting squirrel with a buddy, when a large squirrel came toward them. His friend raised his gun and aimed. “That squirrel is too big and too friendly to be a regular forest squirrel,” he thought. “I think Borden has a squirrel. I wonder . . .”
The hunter produced a burlap bag. Grandfather opened it, and out popped Rupert! He never disappeared like that again.
As we studied animals in high school biology, we spent a some time on squirrels. I asked the teacher, “How long do squirrels live?”
“About seven years,” he answered. I was stunned. Rupert was already six years old that I knew of. After that, I went away to college and did not see Rupert often.
Then came news that he died. On one of my visits home, my grandmother told me about it. Rupert came scratching at the door. She opened it and found that he was shivering. She went for a cloth to wrap around him, for by this time she had become the third person allowed to handle him.
When she returned, Rupert was dead on the doorstep.
Sometime later, my grandfather died. After a few years, my grandmother died. With some luck, Rupert will remain alive another 40 years in my memory.
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