Azira Smith's Page

Today's GMM reminded me of the time my best friend got attacked viciously by a squirrel, and nearly lost her eye in the process. Here's the story she wrote about it.

A true story with an alternate ending, right from the horses mouth(written by the legend herself, Eryn Heidel).

                It was the last day at summer camp.  I remember it well.  The heat penetrated the canopy of leaves like a nail driven through wood.  There was no wind—there was too much tree cover for that—but there was always the heat that never left.

                As a camp tradition, on the last day of camp, there was always, always, super gratis.  Chores that no one wanted to do, but had to be done in order for the next group of kids to come and take our places in the natural order.

                My gratis group anxiously awaited their fate.  Super dishes? That one was pretty good, because the number of dishes usually never varies.  What one wants to look out for are super bathrooms.  Only the bravest ever go in, and no one ever comes out smelling exactly the same. 

                Group one got super free time.  Of course they did.  They ALWAYS did.  Not that I minded.  I mean, who WOULDN’T want something OTHER than super FREE TIME on super CHORES day?! No, I wasn’t bitter.  Just as long as I didn’t get super bathrooms.

                My group was group three.  I saw the camp director pick up the piece of wood with our number on it, and bring it over to the gratis board.  Where would he put it? There were only two options—bathrooms, or grounds.

                “Please grounds,” I muttered, wringing my fingers until they were red “Plleeeeeeease Grounds.”

                I had a friend once who did super bathrooms.  She doesn’t talk anymore.

                Our wooden piece was hung up in front of grounds and I jumped up in joy.  “YES!” I exclaimed, punching my fist into the air with glee.  I imagined punching toilets in the face, because I wouldn’t be cleaning them.

                Unfortunately, this would be a fatal position for me.

                Once outside, as a part of super grounds, half of the group began sweeping the dirt off the dirt.  Because there was just so much dirt on all of the dirt, that the dirt was dirt.  Meanwhile, myself and my friend Becca went to go clean up the sport supplies that littered the camp grounds from one end to the other.

                Soccer balls.  Baseballs.  Torpedo balls.  We picked them all up and returned them to their respective places.  Then we eyed it.  That devious snake that lay twisted upon the ground.  The tug of war rope.  It was three times the size of any normal tug of war rope.  And it taunted us.

                I looked at Becca “LET’S DO THIS THANG!” I cried, thumping my chest and running for the rope.  I picked up one end hurriedly and began to sprint toward the sports shed while Becca tried her hardest to gather up the rest of the rope I was quickly leaving in the dirty dirt.

                I stopped in front of the sports shed.  It was splintery.  Made of wood.  Old wood that had been worn down from years and years of sports shed-er-y.  I lifted the unlocked padlock from the latch and opened the door wide, peering into the dusty darkness that had thus far remained undisturbed.

                “Where does the rope go?” I asked Becca as she finally caught up to my speedy and most excellent self.

                “In the back,” she said, walking into the sports shed. 

                I remained behind, just by the door, a sinking feeling assaulting my stomach, much as I was literally about to be assaulted.  “There’s something wrong,” I whispered intuitively, much like Sherlock Holmes, but cooler.  About 20% cooler.

                Suddenly, it was as if Becca had thrown a ball at my face.  I was surprised, and yelled out, but there was no response.  The world melted around me and then it was only myself and the ball.  The fuzzy, scratchy, clawing ball.  On my face.

                I thought to myself: “This is no ball!” and then I thought “It must be a cat!”

                And then, just as quickly as it had arrived, so had it disappeared.  I whirled around in confusion, only to see a small, brown rodent scurry into the grass. 

                “Oh.  Crap.” I said.  “I was just attacked by a squirrel.”

                A deadly squirrel.

                An hour of nurse hunting and mother calling later and I was in the car, driving down the dirty dirt road, which had not yet be swept,  and towards the hospital.  My mother was on the phone with my father, laughing gaily at my misfortune. 

                There was no longer blood, but only bandages with Toy Story all over my face. 

                When we arrived at the hospital, we were lucky to get in right away to see someone.

                “It’s only a minor scratch,” said the nurse, “You were lucky it did not get your eye.”

                “What about rabies?” My mother asked.

                “Well, it doesn’t look like she was bitten, but, if you have the squirrel, we can check it.”

                “We don’t have the squirrel!” I snapped! “And if we did, you can be sure that I would have punted it to the moon!”

                “I see,” said the nurse, taking a step away from me cautiously, “Well, it’s ultimately your decision.  I would suggest getting the rabies shots, because it is better safe than sorry.”

                “Shots?” I asked “How many shots?”

                “About six hundred,” said the nurse.  Of course, it probably wasn’t that many, but it might as well have been.  It doesn’t matter anyway.

                “No!” I cried.  “Shots are for losers and squares! I am much too awesome for shots! Rabies has no chance against me!”

                “Suit yourself,” said the nurse.

                Three weeks later, I woke up and found foam all over my pillow.  “Well this is strange,” I remarked, calling to my younger brother: “ERIC! Did you get shaving cream all over my pillow while I was sleeping again!?”

                “No.” Was his monotonous reply as he head-shot a zombie on a screen.

                “Oh,” I replied.  “Oh well.”

                It was the first sign of my inevitable demise.

                Days past, and to be honest, I don’t even remember them.  Another trip to the hospital revealed that I had been afflicted with RABIES! And there was nothing else I could do.

                How could I be so silly? Why didn’t I take the shots while it wasn’t too late?

                These questions haunted me as I breathed my last.

                I do not regret my decision, though, because in the afterlife I have become one of the most renowned and excellent squirrel destroyers.  And I did not stoop so low as to become a loser or a square and get a few shots.

                To this day, I remain a camp legend: The hapless camper who was attacked by a dreaded were-squirrel that only goes after those who do not scrape their plates.

                There is a lesson to be learned here, but I do not have the time to tell it.  I must go and seek revenge on those tiny, demonic monstrosities.  Beware the squirrel! Do not let its cute façade lure you into a false sense of security.  They are killers in fluff.

THE END!