The True Vyne

Claire thinks I need some serious sensitivity training. She agreed to rehabilitate two abandoned newborn squirrels, and finds my objections to be profoundly sad. Rehabilitation means feeding the varmints formula every three hours by a syringe and doing what their mother would normally do to get them to eliminate afterwards, cleaning their cage, regulating their temperature, clearing up their diarrhea, and other endless tasks I can't fathom doing for a creature that looks just like a nasty rat. Claire insisted I drop by and see how very cute and cuddly they were. Call me crazy, but I have no interest in baby squirrels unless it's to watch them do what squirrels do in the wild. On rare occasions, I find the creatures to be amusing to observe. I certainly don't want to ever touch one. It gives me the hebee jebees just thinking about it.
Apparently the squirrels have opened their eyes, and are becoming much more active this last week. All the more reason for me to stay clear. Imagine one escaping and madly racing about the house.
Claire has a grandma who has passed on, and Claire thinks when I meet her grandma in the afterlife, (she was another bright woman who also did not dig squirrels either) we'll walk together down a glistening heavenly path to a squirrel refuge to snuggle and care for baby winged angel squirrels who departed earth too soon. Claire believes the scales of squirrel prejudice will melt away from my heart when I set foot through the pearly gates. She thinks I lack squirrel compassion.
Personally, I think Grandma and I will slap our knees, hoot and holler over the fact that God will not allow squirrels upstairs, because they simply aren't as cute, let's say, as goats. Now there is an animal in which to dedicate one's time.