Days pass. The Squirrel proves to be a hard worker. Better yet, a quiet one.

After a somewhat rough start, she learns quickly to read my directions. She anticipates me and continues to move one step ahead of me, working diligently to make my life more convenient. After I got over the resentment of being waited on and having my things shuffled around a bit, I’ve even come to appreciate her thoughtfulness.

Not to be outdone, or simply out of gratitude, perhaps, I find myself paying a little more attention to her, and providing a similar courtesy.

I start to bring her fresh water in the morning so she doesn’t have to go down to the creek. I split the firewood before I start my other chores, and bring in an armload so she can cook more easily.

I’m an early riser, up before the dawn, usually. In the mornings I find her curled up in front of the dark fireplace, and one day it occurs to me she must be cold. Having no spare blankets and nothing clean to lend her besides my own winter clothes, I go to my chest of furs. Here I take out a large rabbit skin blanket I’ve sewn together, soft and fine, and lay it over her sleeping form before I head out. A blanket like that I might sell for a hefty sum in town, but just at the moment, I don’t really consider the cost. Just seeing her little body settle down and stop shivering in the early morning cold is enough for me.

That night, when I return from a long day of trapping, she thanks me silently with delicious pork pie and another huge slab of cornbread with honey. I eat myself nearly sick and go to bed with a bit of a stomach ache.

The next morning, I sleep in, waking after the dawn. I get up and stretch and look around, a bit bewildered to find the Squirrel is not in her usual place. Then I hear the thump of an axe outside.

I go to the door to watch her split firewood. Usually this is my job, I think with a frown. But I do not move to help her.

I watch her hurry around, working quickly and quietly, loading all the wood into her arms. Then she starts for the door. Spying me in the doorway, though, she falters, trips over herself. She goes sprawling in the grass, the firewood with her. I continue to watch as she scrambles to gather it up again, red faced with embarrassment.

Even now, she’s so quiet. Never makes a sound, not to cry or complain, or even to ask me for help.

I admire that about her. Though, for some reason, it irks me too.

Silently, I walk out to her and hold out my arm. She stares at me uncertainly for a moment, and I glare at her expectantly. Timidly, she surrenders her load. What filled both of her arms to the brim is only half an armload for me. Her eyes widen at this realization and she looks up at me. I feel something like a smirk pull across my features, a little spark of humor I thought I’d lost long ago. Her face colors to see it and I think mine does too.

She hurries past me, back inside the house to prepare the kindling. I follow after her on heavy footsteps, deposit the wood next to the fireplace, and go back out to collect a little more…

It’s been a week now since the Squirrel came to live with me. And I am decided.

She’s not such a bother after all. In fact, I’m starting to wonder how I ever got along without her home-cooked meals, always hot and ready for me whenever I come back from a long day’s work.

The Squirrel is welcome in my home. She can stay for as long as she likes.

With this decision comes necessary action. It’s a hard day working in the woods, falling trees, trimming branches, carving notches so they fit just so. I’m sweat streaked and covered in sawdust.

That evening as I come upon the clearing for my cabin carrying a very simple, very light burden, I consider the many raspberry bushes lining the far side. I need to harvest those before it gets much colder. Before a gluttonous bear shows up and devours them in the space of an afternoon.

Outside the door to my cabin I stop to brush myself off. It’s not something I’d ordinarily bother with, but when I think of how hard the Squirrel works to keep the floor clean, it seems the least I can do.

Leaving a small layer of wood particles outside the front door, I let myself inside. And I stop short.

The table is covered in half a dozen pails, all filled to the brim with raspberries. Over the fireplace, a jam simmers, filling the air with an unbelievably sweet and delicious scent. I’m astounded.

Upon my arrival the Squirrel quickly begins moving the berries to the floor in her corner, out of my way. I watch her work with a sense of awe, and even relief.

The raspberries. I don’t have to pick them.

I wish I knew the proper words to express my gratitude. But words are not my strong point. In fact, besides those few words we exchanged the first night she came, the Squirrel and I haven’t spoken at all.

Still, we understand each other, I think. All the same, I feel a bit nervous, apprehensive as I pull it in inside after me. My gift for her.

She doesn’t notice it right away. She’s busy at the fireplace, pulling a savory pie out of the dutch oven, spreading fresh baked flat bread thickly with raspberry jam. She turns to lay my feast before my chair like usual, then she stops short, and straightens.

Her dark eyes go wide to see the chair I’ve crafted for her. Just a small, simple thing beside my huge, sturdy chair. But I think it suits her better than anything else I could make.

A little self-consciously, I push it toward the table. Then from my other hand I produce the bowl I carved and sealed with beeswax a few days ago, and a fork and spoon. The dishes are tiny, doll sized to my eyes. But looking at the scale of her in my enormous house, they seem just right.

Slowly, the Squirrel’s little hands lift to cover her mouth in disbelief. Her eyes well with tears at my simple gift. The sight pleases me, but also leaves me a bit uncomfortable.

Gruffly I take up my seat. Then I gesture impatiently to hers. Snatching up the bowl from my hands, she quickly scurries back to the fireplace to cut herself a small slice of pie and bread with jam. Then she returns to sit meekly at my left elbow.

This is alright, I think as I take a large bite out of the bread first, which tastes more like dessert topped with the sticky, delicious raspberry jam. The quiet sound of her eating by my side, it doesn’t bother me at all. 

Often when my squirrel—the one that stayed with me before—would eat his cherry pits, I wished he’d come down from the rafters and share a meal with me like this. Even a simple animal’s company would have been such a relief to the gnawing ache of loneliness and boredom in those long winter months.

Now I have a new Squirrel, tamer than the first. I feel pleased to have given her a place at my table. In fact, I don’t think anything could make me happier in this moment than watching her eat with me like this. But something in me grows sad too, when I think that one day she might disappear, the way the first squirrel did.

I didn’t have to wonder what became of him. Ended in the belly of a hawk, I’m sure, or some other predator. When I think of such a fate befalling this Squirrel…

But no, I think, my grip tightening on my spoon. Something like that won’t happen.

My last squirrel was wild. For all I tamed him over that single winter, there remained nothing I could do to keep him near me when the springtime called to him. But this Squirrel is very domesticated, I think, observing her little shoes tucked beneath her chair, her manners and the pretty way she eats her pie. So long as she sticks close to home, I can protect her, and take care no predators ever come to snatch her up.

And when spring comes, I feel certain she’ll get no wild urges to venture out, leaving me alone to wonder what’s become of her…

Cheered by these thoughts, I eat heartily and the Squirrel is quick to get me seconds. She eats only the single serving, I note with some disapproval. She’s already so small.

I’m sure I’d break her if I ever tried reaching out to her…