My first impression is that she’s underdressed. She must be cold.
Piercingly bright rays of early-autumn sunshine slice between still-leafy branches of the once-mighty oak across the street. While the beams gently land on her – clad in a short-sleeved navy knit pullover, lightweight slacks and sandals on a brisk afternoon on the shores of Lake Erie – she must be chilled, I think.
But, really, it’s tough to tell; her own comfort, clearly, is not her chief concern right now.
Crouching just inside the paved, mile-long walking path around the perimeter of Lakewood Park, she focuses intently on something at the base of the sprawling silver maple tree. I’m walking my third lap and I am within 20 feet of her when I stop to see what’s going on. For the slimmest of split seconds, she turns her head my way.
“Something’s wrong,” she says, eyes darting back to the object of her attention.
Then I see it – a small, tail-swishing smatter of greyness.
A squirrel. Sammy Squirrel. (Don’t ask why, I call all squirrels Sammy Squirrel.)
Only about 10 feet between them, Sammy and Shortsleeves stare at one another; a showdown of sorts, it seems.
This time she doesn’t even glance at me.
“Something is just not right.” Concern saturates Shortsleeves’ tone. “Watch,” she says, slowly moving toward Sammy.
But Sammy is on to her. He hobble/scampers – his right rear leg neither adding much to the hobble nor to the scamper – back up the tree, about 3 feet, then around to the other side, where we can’t see him.
She’s right. Something’s wrong.
I fumble for words. Something. Anything.
“Well, I … uuuuhhh … I … I have Animal Control’s phone number.” It’s the best I can do. “Do you think I should call them?”
Shortsleeves likes that idea. A lot. In fact, she says she had that very thought – followed immediately by the thought that she didn’t have her phone on her.
I fumble some more, this time with my fingers on my phone. I call.
“Yes, right, a grey squirrel … at Lakewood Park … actually, out by the walking trail, near the park entrance … right, uh-huh, out by Lake Road … well, we can’t tell exactly … it seems to be one of its rear legs … or paws … the poor little thing .. it’s just not moving well.”
Obviously hearing me, Sammy musters enough energy to claw and skedaddle back within our sight. He positions himself spread-eagle, nose pointing down toward the base of the tree, the flat of his belly rubbing up against the bark.
He looks up at us as if to say, “Try this move, buddy!”
Animal Control says it’s on its way. Shortsleeves sighs.
I am off the hook.
I think.
I ask Shortsleeves whether she wants me to stay until Animal Control arrives. You see, I tell her, I am to meet my friend Mike, over by the pavilion, at 4 o’clock.
She’s cool with that.
It’s 3:56.
I spare her my neurotic tale of tardiness past, of having been late to my last couple of meet-ups with Mike, of how I want to be on time.
Hey, it’s the truth. Part of it anyway.
The whole truth? I also don’t want to be standing here, with Sammy and Shirtsleeves, when Animal Control arrives.
I am skittish. I have a fleeting feeling.
What will they do when they get here?
Will they be able to catch Sammy?
If yes, what will they do to/for him?
If no, what will Sammy do?
How will he survive?
My angst continues. I don’t want to be late for Mike. And I don’t want to see how Sammy’s tale ends. If it ends.
Now I’m awash in guilt.
Should I stay or should I go?
“You made the phone call,” says half of my brain. “You’ve done your part.”
“You can’t leave her alone with Sammy,” shoots back the other half.
“I don’t want to be late to meet with Mike.”
“That’s just an excuse; your cowardly ass just wants to run away.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Of course, I’m right!”
(Ugh. My brain. This one’s so worn out. Note to self: Get new brain. Soon. Please.)
It’s 3:58.
I glance at the park entrance and the vehicles now entering the park. Mike’s not here yet. I don’t think so anyway.
I walk toward the pavilion 100 yards away, a portrait in self-doubt. Am I doing the right thing?
The super-duper-mega-truth? Mike is not going to care if I’m a few minutes late. I could call or text him, like, now, and let him know.
I feel a coward. I’m a good man with a good heart, but …
Just as I get to the pavilion, I turn to see Mike pulling his ruby-red Rav-4 into the parking lot. He rolls down his window, yells his customary greeting: “Jeffrey! What’s goin’ on, buddy!”
He parks, exits the car, extends his right hand. He always beats me to the punch with the handshake.
It hasn’t been a bad day, I tell him, glimpsing one more time at Shortsleeves standing vigil next to that tree.
Still no sign of Animal Control. They’ll be there soon.
“It’s been a good day,” I tell Mike. Except for the past 10 minutes.
I tell him what’s happened. He tells me I’ve done the right thing.
Mike has a very demanding job. I’m always in awe hearing about his experience, in working with the mentally ill and the homeless. “How was your Monday?” I ask