When I was a child, we took in an injured and abandoned baby squirrel and put him in a cardboard box for a makeshift cage. We fed him with an eyedropper and nursed him back to health. One day, Sammy (the name we gave him) chewed a hole in the box, ran roughshod all over the house, ripped mom’s curtains to shreds, chewed the fingers and nose off of my brand new “Velvet” doll, and ran up my Aunt Goldie’s leg (under her patio shift) and bit her in a place you seriously don’t want to be bit.
And that was before breakfast.
Good times. Good times.
≤}B^)