Wyoming Bold

“Should I tell him about the two stray cats we feed every morning?” Clara teased as she came back with a shoebox and a piece of towel.

“Shh!” Merissa said quickly, putting her finger to her lips.

They all laughed.

Tank made holes in the top of the shoebox while Merissa held the squirrel.

“You’re going to be just fine, don’t worry,” she told the little animal. It looked up at her from wide, dilated eyes. It was still shivering.

“I think it’s in shock,” Tank said. He took the squirrel and put it gently in the box with the towel and closed it up. “I’ll call my buddy right away.”

“You’ll let us know?” Merissa asked.

He smiled. “Of course.”

“I hope they don’t eat the wiring in the attic,” Clara said nervously. “I’m going to close the flue right now!”

“At least he’s a boy squirrel. We don’t have to worry about any babies in a nest inside that the mother couldn’t get to,” Merissa said. “They say if it’s a mother squirrel and you close her access, the babies will all die. It’s so sad.”

“True. But so are electrical fires.” Tank glanced at the wall where the cord had been plugged in. “Don’t use that until I can get one of my men over here to check the wiring.”

“Okay,” Merissa said. “Thanks. I’m terrified of fire.”

“Me, too,” Clara seconded.

“Not much danger of that, just from a blown extension cord, especially when you’re standing beside it when it blows. But it’s always best to be cautious. I’ll take our friend home with me. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told Merissa.

She grinned. “Okay.”

He grinned back. “Good night.”

They went out to the porch to see him off. He waved as he went down the driveway, still covered with the remains of the snowstorm.

They went back into the living room. The small Christmas tree they’d put up that day was beautiful with its colored lights. Clara didn’t have them set to flash because it gave Merissa headaches. It was pretty just the same. Clara put an arm around Merissa’s shoulders. “So now I can see which way the wind is blowing, and I don’t even need to be psychic.” She laughed.

Merissa leaned her head against her mother’s. “I’m so happy. I never expected to find anyone who’d like me the way I am.”

“I thought I had, once,” Clara said quietly. “I made a terrible mistake. And you paid more for it even than I did.”

Merissa was very still. “Dalton knows.”

“What?”

“He knows, about what Dad did. He said if he’d known us back then, my father would have gone to prison for it.”

“I lived in terror for so many years, afraid that Bill would return, that he’d find us, that he’d want to get even with me for divorcing him,” Clara confessed.

“Do you know where he is?” Merissa asked worriedly.

Clara shook her head. “The last I heard, from his cousin who’s still in touch with me, he was working on the docks in California. I hope he stays there.”

“So do I,” Merissa replied. “Oh, so do I!”

* * *

TANK DROVE THE squirrel to the rehabilitator. It was necessary, because law prevented any veterinarian from treating a wild animal. That had to be done by a trained rehabilitator, and there were so few that many injured animals died. The rehabilitators were so overworked that many just stopped answering their phones in self-defense, not having realized the incredible number of injured wild animals they were signing up to treat. The law was in place to protect animals and the public, but it seemed to Tank that it was designed to let wounded wildlife die. Like so many other little-known laws, its good intentions sometimes were outweighed by its tragic consequences.

“At least this one will live,” Tank told Greg Barnes, his friend.

“Yeah, he’s just shocked and burned a bit.” Greg chuckled. “A couple of days rest and some good food, and he’ll be back out chewing up electrical cords again.” He put the squirrel in a clean cage with water and food. Nearby were many other cages, containing a raccoon with a bandaged leg, a wolf with a leg missing, even a raven with a broken wing.

“What happened to all of these?” Tank asked.

“Kids with guns” came the irritated reply. “A teenager shot the raven for sport. I had words with him and his father, and court action is pending.”

Tank shook his head. “And the wolf?”

“Ate two of a rancher’s calves. He was trapped. He lost the leg and would have died if I hadn’t found him. People and wild animals just don’t mix.”

“Ranchers have to live.”

The rehabilitator nodded. “So they do. Nobody wins in a situation like this. The rancher is being fined for trapping the wolf. It’s an endangered species. The rancher said his calves were also endangered, but it won’t help him.” He glanced at Tank. “Most of the people who write law concerning wild animals have never seen one.” He had a strange, wicked look on his face. “You know, I have this recurring daydream about putting a couple of these legislators in a room with several hungry wolves...” He sighed. “Well, never mind. But I guarantee it would change attitudes. The survivors would probably legislate for change.” He put his hand to the wolf’s muzzle through the cage and stroked it. The wolf didn’t seem to mind. “Not you, old fellow,” he said gently. “There are sweet wolves and mean wolves. Sort of like people.” He glanced at Tank. “But in the wild, a wolf is going to do what comes naturally, whether it’s kill and eat elk or cattle. The trick is to make sure the numbers aren’t so big that the habitat can support the pack and they don’t resort to raiding cattle ranches.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell Congress.”

“Wouldn’t I love to tell Congress how I feel about what goes on in the real world out here. How do you tell a wolf it can’t cross a property line? Or a raven that if it goes to ground hunting a rabbit it’s likely to be shot in lieu of a target?”

“At least you’re trying to help,” Tank pointed out.

Greg smiled. “Trying to. Yes.” He waved an arm around the room full of cages. “I have two more rooms like this.” He cocked his head and pursed his lips. “Ever wonder why I’m not married?”

Tank chuckled. “Not really. I don’t know a lot of women who’d like to share space with a wolf. Even one in a cage.”

“Got a cougar in the other room. A ferret and a couple of skunks. All victims of trapping.” He shook his head. “The raven was a special case, I mostly do mammals.”

“Who brought him to you?”

He grimaced. “The boy’s mother. His dad thought it was great, how he hit the raven on the fly. His mother was horrified.”

“Good for her. I like to target shoot, but I don’t do it with animals. Well, except deer, in hunting season,” he amended. “I love venison.”

“Me, too,” Greg confessed. “That’s rather a different case. Not enough forage for an overpopulation of deer, so we hunt the excess to keep the herds healthy. Can’t explain that to outsiders, either. We’re killing Bambi.”

“Bambi can kill you with those hooves,” Tank commented. “They’re like razor blades.”

“Indeed they are. Deer are powerful, especially the bucks, with those big racks.”

“Think the squirrel will live?”