I was working in my writing studio in the backyard with the door open when I heard my cat make a nasty sound. She was inside, in a corner by a bookshelf, batting something around. I hated it when she brought in half-dead, half-eaten birds. “Bad kitty!” I yelled.
I yanked her up by the scruff of her neck and she dropped what she was torturing—not a bird, but a baby squirrel. It was little and gray and its tail was bent, though not bloody, from where the cat had bit it. Its eyes were open and terrified and it had little tiny ears. I picked it up.
It was just starting to get fur, so it was soft and warm and I could feel its heartbeat in my hand.
I put the squirrel in my shirt pocket while I called Animal Control. It looked up at me with its giant tiny eyes. I told them I found a squirrel and asked: Could I bring it in?