By Karen Zautyk
Last week, The Observer published an article advising people not to try to “rescue” seemingly abandoned baby birds and animals they might come across in the wild, in parks or in their own backyards.
“In most cases,” says the NJDEP Division of Fish & Wildlife, “these animals have not been abandoned, and are in fact being watched by a parent hidden nearby.” And “taking these animals from their homes denies them critical learning experiences that will enable them to fend for themselves as they grow older.”
The other day, we encountered several creatures, most of them adolescents or young adults, who are living testimony to what occurs when they are denied those learning experiences and a secure wildwood childhood home.
Aware that a certain section of a certain town tends to attract miscreants, we staked it out, and, sure enough, we soon spotted a young squirrel hopping across the abandoned, off-limits railroad trestle, obviously heading home from Newark.
It was carrying a hypodermic needle in its mouth.
When we emerged from the shrubbery, it spit out the syringe, shouting, “It’s not mine! Not mine! I just found it!”
“Don’t worry,” we said. “We’re not Vice. We’re from the newspaper.”
“Even worse,” said the squirrel.
But, we eventually gained its confidence and promised not to reveal its identity. And it admitted that it uses controlled dangerous substances, which it obtains from a gang of Passaic River rats. The squirrel hung its furry little head in shame.
“What sent you down that path?” we asked. And it told its life story:
“When I was just a baby, I wandered away from the nest and some humans found me and decided I had been abandoned. They took me home to be a pet, even though keeping wild animals as pets is illegal in New Jersey. I was raised by a family of lawbreakers.
“Not only that, but they were rich. They spoiled me rotten. I have been in court several times, but I always get off, using the ‘affluenza’ defense.”
The squirrel then led me up the old railroad tracks and into the brush that borders them. It pushed aside some branches, revealing the other members of its crew, which included a couple of sparrows sharing a roach. It was a real roach, not the remnants of a marijuana cigarette, but they obviously thought they were involved in an illicit activity and didn’t give a hoot. (Yes, I know sparrows do not hoot, but “didn’t give a chirp” is less dramatic.)
Also there was a bunny, which has a penchant for shoplifting carrots from Walmart; a mole, who spends his “working hours” down in South Kearny, smuggling contraband into the Hudson County Jail via tunnels it dug under the building; and a groundhog, which was once the mole’s partner in crime but found it more profitable to just steal things from the local Community Garden.
All of them told the same sad story of having been “rescued” from the wild by humans who, attempting to domesticate them, inadvertently corrupted them instead. Denied a suitable education in how to earn an honest living in forest and field, and exposed to incessant TV coverage of the various presidential hopefuls, they eventually ran away from their homo sapien homes and turned to lives of crime. Or, at least, of dissipation.
Sitting on a rock, passing around a bottle of Wild Turkey, were three skunks, all of them drunk as . . . well, you know.
Curious, we asked, “Do actual wild turkeys also drink Wild Turkey?” “Nah,” answered the squirrel. “They prefer Old Crow.”
The squirrel also told me that even law-abiding wild animals are in danger if they have too much contact with humans. “You know all those deer that are hit by cars,” he said. “You really think they are stupid enough to run into traffic? Most of them are just trying to flag down some vehicle they’ve mistaken for the Uber ride they requested.”
Dusk was settling in, so we left the sad little group, guided back down the tracks by the squirrel. As we said good-bye near the riverbank, we noticed a possum at the very edge of the water watching a shark swimming toward it. “Why doesn’t he run?” I asked, alarmed.
“Not to worry,” said the squirrel. “The possum’s got a court date tomorrow. That’s his lawyer.”
[Editor’s note: The statement above is not intended to denigrate the honorable legal profession, but we never could resist a bad joke.]
