I pick myself up and dust the snow off my belly. The dog has run up to the boy and is licking his face. The boy looks half frozen, but happy to see the dog. “Cuddles!” he says, his voice sounding all shivery. He wraps his arms around the dog and buries his face in the dog’s fur.
I hear the squeaky crunch! crunch! crunch! of someone who is heavy walking fast on new snow.
It’s the man. As soon as he sees the boy, he runs the rest of the way. He’s put on his Outside clothing, though he hasn’t taken the time to fasten it. Now he hurriedly takes it off and wraps the smaller boy in it. He tells the little boy everything will be all right, and he rubs the boy’s hands and blows warm breath on them, and he tells him again everything will be all right, and that everyone was worried, and that everything will be all right, and good thing Cuddles is such a good tracker—he’s such a good tracker, he deserves a gold star—and everything will be all right, and it’s time to go home now. And that everything will be all right.
He picks the boy up to carry him, and he says, “Come, Cuddles.” And then he sees me.
He gives me the same squinty-eyed look his mother gave the dog at the door.
Then he shakes his head and says, “Can’t be.” Then he asks, “Can it?”
“Certainly,” I say. “And thanks for all the food.”
As I scamper up a tree, the dog calls after me, “Not badly done. For a rodent.”
I pause long enough to call down, “Yeah, and whatever a gold star is, if it’s something to eat, I deserve at least half of it!”
And the man starts walking home, once again assuring the previously lost little one that everything will be all right.
Home Sweet Home
I take the shortcut—traveling via tree. But I get sidetracked when I notice a mountain ash tree that still has a few berries. Mountain ash berries are the best thing ever.
So I get back to my tree at the same time that the dog and the man and the smaller child arrive at their home.
Several of the guests have put on their Outside clothes and have come out of the house just in time to greet them. They make such a fuss about how cold the smaller child must be and how lucky he is that he only twisted his ankle and didn’t break it that they keep the man from carrying him Inside where it’s warmer.
I hear the man tell how Cuddles tracked the boy in the snow and led the way directly to him.
I let the dog get the praise, even though, actually, it was me.
The man’s mother gets on her knees, in the snow, in order to hug the dog. She calls him a most excellent hound.
Which I figure has to be a step better than being called a fool dog.
Though, of course, not as good as being called a squirrel.
They all go in the house, and the last thing I hear is Mother calling to everyone to gather around for cupcakes and potato chips to celebrate.
I consider accepting Mother’s invitation, which—strictly speaking—would be the polite thing to do. But even though cupcakes are the best thing ever, I decide my stomach really couldn’t hold one more bite of food. There’s just so much a guest of honor can be expected to do.
So for now I decide not to go back Inside—it’s too noisy and complicated in there with all those extra guests visiting, and they aren’t all well behaved. How is a hardworking squirrel supposed to get a nap? Instead, I go inside my tree and wrap my tail around myself for warmth and coziness. I close my eyes and start to dream about cupcakes.
I really need to ask the dog, sometime, what kind of tree or bush people gather cupcakes from.
I wonder if it could be that scrawny tree they keep Inside, or the plant with the flowers that didn’t taste very good. That would explain a lot.
Come spring blossoming, I’ll have to go back Inside to check. Maybe the dog and I can share cupcakes together. After all, I’m highly educated, but he knows his way around a people house—even if he thinks dogs are man’s best friend, when we all know squirrels are. Squirrels are everybody’s best friend. And, really, sharing cupcakes with a friend is the best thing ever.
Don’t miss Squirrel and Cuddles in
8 Class Pets + 1 Squirrel ÷ 1 Dog = Chaos
Vivian Vande Velde, Squirrel in the House
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