I was born for places that rise.
For edges that make the heart race and paws hesitate, for walls that look impossible until the body learns how to listen. Height taught me early how to cling, how to trust small claws, how to feel the wind brush past my whiskers and know I was alive.
Then the ground rushed up to meet me.
The fall was not loud. It was sudden. Pain arrived afterward—sharp at my nose, burning at one claw, confusion flooding everything else. The wall I landed against smelled wrong, marked with warmth that frightened me. Instinct took over and I ran, even when my legs betrayed me, even when the space closed in.
Nowhere rose high enough to save me.
I pressed myself beneath something heavy and rattling, breath fast and uneven. The world felt too big and too close. When something long and unfamiliar moved toward me, panic split open and I flung myself from one edge to another, jumping where I could not land.
Then there was a shape that did not move like the others.
Instead of rushing, it waited.
The air around it carried a smell I did not understand—neither predator nor prey. When it moved, it did so carefully, as though afraid of breaking something already cracked. I did not want the narrow space I was guided into, but the fear there felt contained rather than violent. When the door closed, the chaos stopped.
Stillness came over me.
Beyond the carrier, the place smelled sharp and unfamiliar. Gentle touches found my nose and claw, brief and precise. Afterward, my body felt heavier, as if the pain had been wrapped and set aside. Sleep arrived without warning, and when I woke, the sharpness had dulled.
The carrier became my world.
It wasn’t the world I wanted, but it held warmth. A towel gathered me together when the night air thinned. Food appeared beside water. The strange-smelling presence returned again and again. It did not grab. It did not shout. Watching came first, then adjusting, then trying again.
Morning brought an open door on the second day.
The world rushed back in.
I ran.
Freedom smelled thin and loud, and I chased it straight into the place I remembered. The washing area received me with familiar corners and hiding spots. Inside a bucket of forgotten things, I found a rope—rough and satisfying, something my teeth could work against. I chewed until my jaw ached, until strands gave way, until I felt briefly capable again.
The wall called to me.
Again and again I jumped. Each time, I failed.
Urgency returned with the protector, along with another voice nearby—sharper, impatient—but the hands remained careful. The broom frightened me, but not cruelly; it guided my panic back into safety. The carrier closed once more, and with it came the rope I had chewed, placed deliberately inside, as though someone had noticed what mattered to me.
That was when understanding flickered.
This presence was not perfect. But it was trying.
Each morning afterward, the door opened. The protector waited without forcing anything. My body wanted the world, but it did not trust itself. Legs tired quickly. Jumps ended too soon. Somehow, this seemed to be understood, even without knowing how to fix it.
Different foods followed. Cool green pieces. Soft things. Each day arrived with another attempt, another quiet hope.
One night, I slipped.
Water clung to my fur and dragged the warmth away. Shaking came without permission. I curled into myself and slept without eating, guarding what little heat remained.
By the fifth morning, I could not stop squeaking.
Everything felt wrong—fur heavy, breath shallow, cold seeping into places it shouldn’t. The protector arrived quickly this time. There was no hesitation. Wrapped in a blanket, I was lifted and carried upward into open light.
The sun does not rush. It stays.
Lying in the folds of cloth, I pressed against warmth that came not only from above, but from beside me. The protector stayed even when I was still. When my body remembered how to hold heat again, I moved closer without thinking.
Something sweet and warm touched my mouth. I drank. I lived.
Stone beneath me held the sun like memory. I walked. I sniffed. The terrace opened itself to me as I tested its edges, returning to the shape of myself. Nearby, the protector watched—ready, unsure, hopeful. For a brief while, I felt almost whole.
Later, the carrier returned.
Inside waited the dry towel, the familiar rope, the known smells. The protector hesitated, then stepped away.
Rest followed.
Breathing became work again. Borrowed warmth slipped quietly back to where it belonged. This time, fear did not come—only a tiredness too deep to argue with.
When my chest stilled, the world softened.
Lightness followed.
I saw the protector return. I saw the stillness that had become me lifted carefully, without hurry or shame. The walk happened again—not in paws, but in rhythm—until the ground changed beneath me.
Grass. Soil. Roots.
A tree stood waiting, patient in the way only trees are. Beneath it, I was laid down. A fragrant green leaf rested near me. Pieces of fruit followed, placed gently, as though apology could be shaped by hands.
The earth closed without pressure.
Above, the tree did not ask how long I had lived.
It only made space.
Author’s Note
Chunta was real.
This piece is based on my experience with an injured squirrel over five days—from finding a baby squirrel who could not climb back to safety, through what became a baby squirrel rescue shaped by uncertainty, adjustment, and care.
I share this not as instruction, but as remembrance. When we encounter an injured squirrel or find ourselves unexpectedly caring for injured animals, we often act without certainty, guided only by instinct and kindness.
Rescuing injured wildlife does not always end the way we hope. But kindness to animals still matters. Trying still matters.
This is for Chunta—
and for anyone who has ever tried to protect a small life, even when it was not enough.