Behind the Puddle

The Squirrel Behind the Puddle

There are neighbors Behind the Puddle who inspire stillness. There are neighbors who make me stop what I am doing simply because their presence feels extraordinary. And then there is Pinecone.

Pinecone is our squirrel. Technically, Pinecone is a squirrel, and I am fully aware that wild squirrels do not belong to the humans who name them. But after spending a summer watching the acrobatics, attempted thefts, feeder investigations and general mischief happening around the white pine tree, “a squirrel” no longer seems quite sufficient.

Somewhere along the way, the squirrel became Pinecone. And Pinecone became part of life Behind the Puddle.

First, There Was a Squirrel

For a long time, we only saw one squirrel around the yard. Pinecone seemed to spend most of the time in or near the large white pine tree, which also happens to be where some very desirable bird feeders are located. This arrangement apparently presented Pinecone with an irresistible opportunity.

At first, I simply watched. There is something almost ridiculous about the amount of determination contained inside such a small animal. Pinecone could climb, stretch, hang, balance and maneuver around obstacles that were quite obviously designed without squirrel convenience in mind.

It didn’t take long before watching Pinecone became entertainment. I started reaching for my phone when the acrobatics began. Eventually, I realized I had accumulated an impressive number of photographs of a squirrel I hadn’t known existed before this summer.

The Great Suet Disagreement

Our relationship became slightly more complicated when Pinecone discovered the woodpecker suet.

Apparently, Pinecone and I have very different understandings of the purpose of a bird feeder. I believed the large rectangular block of suet belonged inside the feeder for the birds. Pinecone believed that if a squirrel could figure out how to open the feeder and remove the suet, ownership had been successfully transferred.

For several days, we had what I can only describe as a silent conversation about this disagreement. Pinecone would somehow get the feeder open. I would later discover the large suet block on the ground, complete with very definite bite marks along the side.

I would pick it up, put it back where it belonged and gently remind Pinecone that we needed to share with our friends. Pinecone remained unconvinced.

Negotiating With a Squirrel

Eventually, I decided perhaps the problem wasn’t Pinecone’s behavior. Maybe Pinecone simply needed a place at the table.

So I bought a squirrel feeder.

Actually, because we only had one squirrel at the time, I decided two feeding options should be plenty. We bought dry corn on the cob along with squirrel and critter food filled with corn, nuts and sunflower seeds, and I filled the green rectangular hanging feeder.

This was apparently what my life had become. I wasn’t trying to keep the squirrel away anymore. I was negotiating.

The birds could have their feeders. Pinecone could have squirrel food. Everyone could share the yard.

At least that was my plan.

I am not entirely convinced Pinecone ever formally agreed to the terms.

Meet Pinecone

Pinecone appears to be a young squirrel, which may explain some of the endless curiosity. The white pine has been home base, but over time Pinecone has become increasingly comfortable exploring other parts of the yard. I’ve watched those little adventures expand into the maple tree and around the feeders.

There is a wonderful confidence in the way Pinecone moves through this space now. The yard isn’t simply somewhere to pass through. There are places to climb, places to investigate and, most importantly, multiple places where food occasionally appears.

And because I keep watching, I have begun recognizing patterns. I know where to look. I notice when Pinecone is there. I notice when Pinecone isn’t.

That may be one of the strangest and loveliest things about paying attention to wildlife. Familiarity develops without permission.

Then There Were Two

For weeks, Pinecone appeared to be our only squirrel. That made it fairly easy to believe every squirrel sighting was another chapter in Pinecone’s adventures.

Then one rainy day, there were two.

I struggled to get a good photograph of them together, but there was no question about it. Pinecone had company.

Whether this newcomer was a friend, sibling, rival, romantic interest or simply another squirrel who had discovered that the woman Behind the Puddle was serving a surprisingly elaborate menu, I have no idea.

But I loved seeing them together.

Suddenly the little squirrel world I had been watching became slightly bigger. Pinecone had a life beyond the small part of it I could see.

Of course Pinecone did.

Becoming Somebody

There is something interesting about what happens when we pay attention long enough.

At first, Pinecone was simply a squirrel in the white pine tree. Then Pinecone became the squirrel who kept trying to get the woodpecker suet. Then the squirrel had a name.

After that, things changed.

I wasn’t simply seeing a squirrel anymore. I was looking for Pinecone.

That distinction matters to me.

Naming a wild animal doesn’t mean I believe I know everything about it. Pinecone has an entire existence that has nothing to do with me, my patio, my feeders or the stories I tell.

But the name reminds me to recognize an individual life.

Pinecone is here.

And because I noticed, Pinecone matters to me.

A Place at the Table

One of the unexpected lessons of this summer has been discovering how quickly my definition of “our yard” has expanded.

It belongs to us, of course. But it is also being used every day by creatures who don’t recognize property lines.

The geese wander through. Birds crowd the feeders. Rabbits appear. Dragonflies dance over the water. Stella and Stanley fish along the shoreline.

And Pinecone raids the buffet.

I could spend all my time trying to control who gets what. Instead, I have found myself wondering how we might make a little more room.

Sometimes that means putting out cracked corn. Sometimes it means filling another feeder. Sometimes it means accepting that the woodpecker suet may occasionally contain squirrel-sized bite marks.

Coexistence isn’t always orderly.

Apparently, sometimes it looks like buying a squirrel its own groceries.

The Antics Matter Too

Not everything Behind the Puddle needs to teach me a profound lesson.

Sometimes Pinecone is simply funny.

There is joy in watching a squirrel attempt something ridiculous with complete confidence. There is entertainment in seeing what new scheme might be underway. There is something wonderfully ordinary about looking toward the white pine and discovering Pinecone hanging somewhere I didn’t expect a squirrel to be.

Those moments matter too.

The puddle has given me stillness and reflection. Stella and Stanley have given me awe. The geese have taught me about family, boundaries and belonging.

Pinecone makes me laugh.

And laughter belongs here just as much as everything else.

Still Watching

I don’t know how long Pinecone will remain part of the daily landscape. That is one of the realities of loving wild neighbors.

They come and go.

We aren’t promised another visit simply because we enjoyed the last one. So I keep watching while Pinecone is here.

I take the pictures. I refill the feeders. I occasionally remind a squirrel that the woodpecker suet is intended for the woodpeckers.

And I enjoy the fact that somehow, during this strange and wonderful summer Behind the Puddle, a little squirrel living near the white pine became someone I look forward to seeing.

Pinecone didn’t have to do anything extraordinary.

Pinecone simply kept showing up.

And I kept paying attention.

Eventually, that was enough for a relationship to begin.