Albert was no ordinary squirrel; he was more like a surrogate child to me, a hairy one who didn’t require a college fund. I had found him at a particularly dark time, right after my first miscarriage and long before the twins came along, at the foot of a giant sequoia. A tiny, shivering ball of fur that looked more like a discarded fetus than a woodland critter. It was love at first sight.
Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Nonfiction
How To Cremate Your Pet Squirrel
The day Albert, our squirrel, passed away was the same day we received the life-shattering diagnosis for our two-year-old daughter, Lou. It was also the first time she and her twin brother watched their mother unravel.
Spastic Cerebral Palsy, chronic pain, blindness, seizures–you know, the full menu. She might never walk, they said, might never talk, might never learn to thrive.
Albert was no ordinary squirrel; he was more like a surrogate child to me, a hairy one who didn’t require a college fund. I had found him at a particularly dark time, right after my first miscarriage and long before the twins came along, at the foot of a giant sequoia. A tiny, shivering ball of fur that looked more like a discarded fetus than a woodland critter. It was love at first sight.
After nursing him back to health, I strung a rope from our balcony to the backyard’s pepper tree, hoping this makeshift squirrel highway would gently nudge him towards independence.
Initially, he clung to the safety of my pillowcase, shunning the great outdoors like a teenager dodging a family vacation. But eventually, the call of the wild, or perhaps the taunts of the cat, got the better of him. He took to his new freedom, nesting in the pepper tree, though he still came back for daily naps on the couch, cuddles, and his favorite blueberries––that is, until he didn’t.
He disappeared for three interminable days before my husband found him half-paralyzed down the street, making a pitiful attempt to get back to us. The guilt crushed me. Was this my doing? In an effort to save him, had I inadvertently doomed him instead? This same sense of overwhelming helplessness stormed back into my life with Lou’s diagnosis. What had I done now? Was it lifting that massive Amazon package, eating too many spicy tacos, or that rogue sip of wine when I was pregnant? Each scenario seemed to reaffirm my uncanny ability to unwittingly engineer disasters.
The vets had little hope for Albert. We braced for the worst. I took care of him, sang to him softly, and waited for his tiny chest to fall still. Yet, Albert chose life.
No longer able to climb, he turned into a veritable couch potato, popping blueberries with his one good arm like they were movie theater snacks. I hadn’t exactly penciled ‘caring for a disabled squirrel’ into my life’s plan, but here I was, whipping up gourmet rodent cuisine and playing masseuse to his tiny, stubborn limbs.
Wedged between the sofa cushions, Albert became our family’s silent sentinel. From my string of miscarriages to the chaotic joy of my pregnancy with the twins, to their dramatic debuts and subsequent meltdowns, he watched it all, content to never steal the spotlight.
I suspect the news of my daughter’s diagnosis was the final straw for Albert. If a squirrel has a breaking point, Albert had reached his. Perhaps his exit was his parting gift—timed just right to distract me from our own bleak forecast. A sort of noble sacrifice to clear the stage for the looming battles. That was Albert, ever the pragmatic optimist, always easing my burden, one nut at a time.
I figured a small ceremony would be a beautiful way to say goodbye—a pyre of broken dreams and scrap wood, doused with what I now realize was an absurd amount of gasoline. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, as it turns out, everything.
The shoebox, lovingly decorated by the twins, caught first. The fire danced around Albert as if deliberately avoiding him. It appeared it had its own cruel agenda, mocking our little memorial. Within the flames, I thought I saw ballerina slippers swirling, a little girl with a ponytail bouncing as she ran, a beast lurking just behind. A wheelchair. Each flicker against Albert’s fur was a harsh echo of how little control I had over anything in life.
In a desperate attempt to move things along, I threw on more wood, trying to steer at least this one aspect of the day, hoping to give Albert the send-off he deserved. But there he remained at the bottom of the pyre, quickly turning into a grotesque, hairless version of himself.
I covered my kids’ eyes. Partly to spare them years of nightmares and the associated therapy bills, and partly because I clung to the irrational, naive hope that if they didn’t see it, maybe none of it was real. Maybe Albert was still alive, maybe the diagnosis was just a terrible mistake. As I faced the harsh reality of how quickly life, so vibrant and full one moment, could turn desolate, I added more gasoline. That’s when the real show started.
The fire chased the fuel back up to the can, and suddenly, I was a human torch, darting around the backyard, insisting to anyone who might hear that, “Everything is okay, I’ve got it under control.” The irony of my own words biting at me even amid the panic.
My son ran off, while my daughter, my brave little cross-eyed fighter, watched in bewilderment as I rolled on the ground, fighting to extinguish the flames that were rapidly robbing me of my eyebrows and any dignity I had left. Throughout it all, Albert’s unburnt body lay in judgment, his lifeless, glassy eyes watching the debacle unfold.
In the children’s bedtime stories, the grand farewells given to kings and queens always seemed so majestic. Albert was certainly royalty in our house. If you’d met him, you’d agree—his demeanor, his presence, he was every bit the regal, furred monarch of our little realm. In hindsight, a less flammable tribute might have been wiser.
Later, the house reeked of defeat and scorched hair—mine, not Albert’s. Although by then, I had come to realize that all hair smells equally offensive when singed; fire, much like fate, did not discriminate. Whether it was determination or merely stubborn pride, I couldn’t bring myself to call my husband. I was afraid that if I did, I’d completely fall apart, spiraling down into a vortex of despair that might swallow me whole. I needed to keep it together, for the kids’ sake.
So, we opted for pizza instead, which tasted about as good as charred cardboard. We ate in silence, broken only by the sound of rhythmic crunching. Then, amidst the quiet, my son turned to his twin and whispered, “Mama, is Loulou gonna die?”
After putting the kids to bed, I buried Albert beneath the pepper tree. The night was still, and as I patted the last clods of earth, a profound sense of loss enveloped me. I realized just how deeply I’d come to love that scrappy little squirrel, and the void his absence would leave. Under the cover of night, I allowed myself to grieve.
In life and even in death, Albert had cushioned the sharp edges of reality for me. His presence had been a constant, steadying force during tumultuous times, a source of solace amid the chaos. Now, with him gone, that gentle comfort had vanished too. Everything was shifting, the future as obscured and uncertain as a path shrouded in thick smoke.
By morning, coyotes had dug up his body. I should have been upset, but all I could muster was a sigh. Albert was beyond suffering now, and though he might come back to haunt me—I wouldn’t blame him—there was a strange relief in knowing that this chapter was at an end.
As I stood there, holding my daughter and gazing at the scattered grey fur across the dirt, I wondered if Albert’s time with us had served as a dress rehearsal for the challenges yet to come. His presence, though brief, was filled with unexpected lessons not just about coping with grief but also about navigating life’s unpredictable waves.
Lou, sensing the shift in my thoughts, reached up to cup my face in her tiny hands and pressed her forehead against mine. Her eyes, deep pools of silent resolve, conveyed more than words ever could. In her gaze, I saw not just a reflection of Albert’s spirit but a burgeoning strength. It was an unspoken pact that although our path forward was uncharted, we would walk it together, fortified by the resilience and hope he had instilled in us.
Albert was a squirrel—a rodent with a glorified tail, perhaps—but to me, he was far more than just a pet. He was a transformative force, teaching me that true love isn’t merely a shield against pain but a foundation for real strength. This was his lasting gift: a kind of gritty courage, the kind we need not just to endure but to face every new challenge with a mix of grace and stubbornness. As I face the lifelong journey of managing Lou’s condition, this lesson remains my guiding light, a reminder that the smallest encounters can leave the most indelible marks on our hearts and lives.
Anaïs Godard is a Franco-American writer and advocate dedicated to amplifying underrepresented voices. She is a 2024 fiction fellow at Idyllwild Arts and Women Who Submit, and her work has appeared in Mensa Bulletin, WoW, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Beyond Words Lit Mag. With a background in Linguistics from La Sorbonne, Anaïs crafts narratives inspired by her experiences as a survivor, immigrant, and mother of twins, one of whom has cerebral palsy. She is also the co-founder of @nastywomenLA, continuing her advocacy through both her writing and activism.