‘Skirls’ just want to have fun—on vacation ~ July 31, 1986

David Heiller

The cabin looked great as we moved our load of supplies in for a week’s vacation on Trout Lake two weeks ago. Carpeting on the living room floor and in the bedrooms. A clean bathroom, nice shower, no slime on the floor. Two beds and a crib in the kids’ room, and a big bed in our room.

Cindy unpacked the food, putting enough for an army encampment into the refrigerator and cupboards. I tucked the clothes into the dressers, enough duds for an army encampment too, except for mine. I brought only three shirts, two pairs of shorts, and some socks. If I had packed the food, we would have had bread and water for a week. That’s why Cindy had let me pack only for myself.

The two kids took off running the minute they hit the cabin floor. There were no bookcases to dodge, no mountains of toys or televisions or stereos. Just pure floor space, a small gym to them for running and falling.

Noah and Malika ready for canoing

Everything looked perfect. I breathed a sigh of relief, the fear of a sight unseen cabin floating out the window into the Northwood’s air. We walked down to the lake. A nice spot for the canoe nestled in the birch and white cedars. A loon called from the other shore, a quarter mile across. The water felt cool, spring fed. Only trout and a few small perch make this lake home. But the fisherman in me, even with its bullhead heritage, felt the challenge calling. Vacation had begun.

There was no time to fish the first night, but the second evening, I caught two rainbow trout, just large enough to skin up for morning breakfast. But as I pulled the canoe into place Sunday evening, Cindy came quickly out to meet me.

“David, there’s an animal living in the cabin.”

My first thought was skunk. Thoughts raced back to our basement at home three summers ago, when I cornered one there. There is still a slight odor.

“What is it?”

Daddy and Noah and a rainy night
on our vacation with the skirl.

“I don’t know. I think it’s a squirrel.” Cindy answered. “But it’s living under the sink, and it’s making a lot of noise. I want you to do something about it, now.”

It was too late to do anything at that hour, and besides, I hadn’t seen this alleged intruder. Neither had Cindy. Maybe the Northwoods had been working its wild mystery on her. Maybe nothing more than the wind in the trees.

Monday morning our three-year-old son Noah came with important news, as I lay drowsing in bed at 7 a.m. “Daddy, there’s a skirl in the kitchen.”

“A what?”

“A skirl.”

“A squirrel?” I mumbled, turning over on my side, away from him. This was the first time in recent memory that I had slept till 7, and I thought I’d try for a record 7:30. Besides, a squirrel in the house? Rampant imaginations again. Half an hour later, Noah came back in.

“Daddy, come look at the skirl.”

I stumbled out of bed, grabbed my pajamas, and walked into the living room. A pine squirrel ran under my feet and behind the couch.

“What the he-” I said, suddenly awake. Cindy stood smiling at me. I told you so, she said without speaking.

I ran to the refrigerator, grabbed the broom from off the wall, and started for the couch.

“Oh no you don’t,” Cindy said, intercepting me and the broom. “You can’t smoosh the squirrel. Noah’s been playing with it for the last half hour.”

“You can’t smoosh the skirl,” Noah repeated, a look of reproach in his eyes.

They had me. I put the broom back.

The squirrel must have been watching this important interchange from under the couch. From that point on, he became another guest in the cabin. We didn’t have to pay for him with money, only in food. He had a regular route under the table where we ate, with long stops under Mollie’s high chair. The squirrel must have had the same instincts as our dog, who spends a lot of time under the high chair at home during meals.

Noah playing Pine-Skirl hide-and-seek 

Mollie seemed to have a special rapport with the squirrel. Her 13-month vocabulary goes over our head, but the squirrel didn’t seem to mind. Mollie would walk bowlegged up to the squirrel, which would sit on its haunches and wait for her. She would stop two feet away, and call out “N-umpf? N-umpf?” The squirrel perked its ears forward. “Ah giggliea, la goolia a dda, N-umpf?”

Then Mollie would take another step, and the squirrel would dash under the couch where a hide and seek game would follow. The squirrel would pop up between the cushions, so Mollie would take the cushions off. By then the squirrel was peeking at her from under the couch. Mollie would spot it there, but while she was bent over looking, it would reappear on the back of the couch, almost quicker than the adult eye, and especially quicker than the toddler’s eye.

We found the hole where the pine squirrel entered, under the sink. That first morning I told a young man who worked at the resort. He looked at me and smiled. I told him again two days later, as the squirrel was settling in with us. He said, “I don’t know what to do about it.” I told the owner on the last night, before we left. By this time the squirrel was a part of our family, and all thoughts of smooshing it had disappeared. The owner, an elderly lady who had lost her husband only two weeks earlier, said, “We’ll have to do something about that, I guess,” in a weary voice.

It’s my bet the squirrel doesn’t have much to worry about. He made our vacation more exciting. He left a good impression on the kids, and even I learned to restrain myself when a squirrel sits under the table while we eat. I hope the next family that moves in for a week has a couple of little kids, and that the broom stays in the corner next to the refrigerator.