Earl the Squirrel

I was in twelfth grade, dating a cute boy named Danny. He lived quite far from me, closer to my school in the heart of West Palm Beach. I drove there in my “new” car—my mom’s old hand-me-down: a blush champagne-colored 1969 Cadillac Seville we affectionately dubbed the Purple Monster. You could fit three friends in the trunk alone when sneaking people into the local drive-in. My brother was mortified to be seen in it. I thought it was fantastic—it got me where I wanted to go, which was usually Danny’s house.

On one of my first visits, I noticed a Habitrail near the front entryway. It was one of those classic 1980s hamster condos—brightly colored plastic cubes connected by tubes, forming a kind of rodent metropolis. I had one for my hamster, Chippy. What made Habitrails truly memorable, though, was lying awake at 2 a.m. listening to your hamster’s awful gnawing—chewing relentlessly at some plastic joint, clearly plotting its escape from the tube prison.

As I leaned in to peek inside Danny’s Habitrail, I saw the strangest “hamster” I had ever laid eyes on. It was only about four inches long, but it had an impossibly long, bushy tail and huge, coal-black eyes. I blinked and looked again.

This was no hamster.

It was a baby squirrel.

Naturally, I asked if I could have it. Danny’s parents looked relieved—very relieved—and said yes without hesitation. So I brought the tiny squirrel home and named him Earl. Earl the Squirrel, of course.

Since my parents raised and bred dogs—my mother Weimaraners and my father Bluetick Hounds—we were no strangers to bottle-feeding animals. My mom quickly mixed up a batch of formula and handed me an eyedropper to see if Earl would take it. At first, he resisted, pushing the milk out so it dribbled down his chin onto a paper towel. But after a few tries, something clicked. Soon he was gripping the eyedropper, tiny bubbles forming in the glass as he eagerly drank.

Earl was also old enough for some solid food. I made him a soft gruel of oatmeal and corn grits, which he quickly grew to love. We supplemented with grains and nuts for him to nibble. After eating, his little belly would swell round, and he’d curl into the tiniest ball, wrapping his fluffy tail around himself like a blanket. It was one of the most adorable things I had ever seen.

As the days passed, Earl grew—and grew.

He would perch on my shoulder as I walked around the house, then suddenly dash up the drapes, settling himself on the curtain rod. This became his “tree”—my mother’s beautiful, custom-made green drapes.

As he got older, Earl also developed a bit of a criminal streak.

One day, my mom noticed the curtain hanging oddly. Upon closer inspection, she found the hem bulging. Earl had chewed into the seam and turned it into a secret stash. The corner of the curtain looked like a little pillow, stuffed full of treasures: missing hair ribbons, barrettes, crackers, half-eaten nuts, raisins… and Sweet Tarts.

Earl loved Sweet Tarts.

If he caught you eating one, he’d climb you without hesitation and—using his tiny, black little hand—reach straight into your mouth to grab it and run.

Another thing about Earl: he had never seen a tree, but instinctively knew how to climb one. And since there were no trees inside our house… you became the tree.

I’ve never had so many scratches in my life.

When Earl climbed, he used every single claw. He’d dash up your bare legs, leaving you spinning and yelling, then scramble up your back—tearing through shirt and skin alike—just to pause triumphantly on your shoulder. He also had an odd fascination with elbows. On his way up or down, he’d often stop just to bite the skin there for no apparent reason.

And when he wasn’t climbing, he was jumping.

Earl had a habit of launching himself from the curtains onto unsuspecting victims from impressive distances, again using his claws to stick the landing. That was probably the summer I wore a jean jacket indoors more than anything else—purely for protection. Even my gym teacher once pulled me aside and asked if everything was okay at home after noticing that over 70% of my body was covered in scratches.

Of course, I also trained Earl to jump on guests—for fun.

My grandmothers barely tolerated my growing collection of animals, and they definitely did not appreciate Earl launching himself at them. They would rush past the drapes at high speed, pleading with me to put him away, or backing up cautiously in hopes he’d miss his mark.

One night, my friend Gina and I were watching Creature Feature on TV. We decided we needed ice cream. Unfortunately, in our house, the ice cream wasn’t in the kitchen—it was in a small outbuilding off the screened-in patio, where we kept two chest freezers filled with my dad’s deer meat and trout from Flamingo, Florida.

I was already terrified from the movie, but butter pecan was calling.

Armed with a broom, I stepped out first while Gina clung close behind me. My imagination was in full force—I was certain something was lurking in the dark, waiting to get us. The porch light barely illuminated the yard, and my long shadow stretched out ahead of me into the grass.

I took another step.

Something rattled the screen porch roof.

Then I felt claws dig deep into my back.

Time stopped.

The next thing I remember, I was standing at the foot of my mother’s bed, trying to scream—but no sound would come out. I had dropped the broom and bolted inside without even thinking.

As I gasped for air, my mom sat up, alarmed, asking what was wrong.

“It got me,” I finally choked out. “A monster!”

Behind me, Gina burst out laughing.

Sitting calmly on my shoulder… was Earl.

He had slipped out the door when we went outside and jumped from the screen straight onto my back.

I truly thought I was going to have a heart attack. I had never been so certain a monster was real—and then to feel its claws…

To this day, I think it was the most terrified I’ve ever been in my life.

Well—until the following summer, after watching An American Werewolf in London and having to go outside alone in the dark to feed my rats.

But that’s a story for another time.