I know I put it somewhere.

That’s what a squirrel across the street must have thought as it searched in the snow.

Surely she, or he, was searching for hidden nuts, because there were holes in the snow all around its tree.

I watched as he dug more holes. I call it a he because it was doing the hunting, not the finding, and I’d watched two of them play “catchme”me catch-many times.

Then either he got tired, or something alerted him, because up the tree he went.

I looked in the high limbs where I was sure they lived, but didn’t see any movement. Then I spotted him in the fork of the tree when the sun made his furry tail almost glisten.

Later, I watched the female squirrel dig farther away from the tree, pick up something, and run up the tree.

That’s when I saw a cardinal land on a branch mid-way up. I was excited to see it because my brother from another mother texted me photos of the cardinals he’s feeding down in Durant, and I was jealous.

I missed the bird photo op while I fumbled with the window blinds, but was probably too far away to get a shot with my phone anyhow.

Which reminds me of my first and last outdoor hunting trip.

I was freshly married (the first time) when my husband and his brother decided we’d go squirrel hunting one cold, fall afternoon in 1962 or ‘63.

They out-fitted me in my brother-in-law Jeff s old work boots, a jacket he took from the bed of his truck, and an Elmer Fudd cap he wore at his job in Pryor.

It was hard to keep up once we got out of the truck somewhere miles north of our OKC apartment.

Jeff swore he had permission from the landowner to be there before they slingshot me over a barbed wire fence.

They shushed city girl me each step I took in those big boots that crunched the leaves, and looked up in the trees for nests.

Back then I had no idea squirrels made nests because the only squirrel I’d ever seen was Rocky the Flying Squirrel in cartoons.

Suddenly, Jeff fired a shot.

Then fired again.

Rocky didn’t fly.

He landed at my feet.

You’d have thought he’d killed a grizzly bear the way they carried on, and I just wanted to cry, and home.

When we pulled into our driveway they made plans to hang Rocky from a tree in the backyard, skin it, and have me fry it.

That’s when I ran upstairs, took a hot bath, went to bed, and left them alone with Rocky.

To this day I don’t know what they did with him, or her, but now I enjoy watching the neighbor’s squirrels run up and down their trees and play games. Well, as long as they stay across the street.

After squirrels chewed through the wood trim on our house, had babies and set up housekeeping in our attic, those little rodents’ days were numbered.

After our home invasion you may find it hard to believe that I still brake for squirrels.

Now that I think about it, in case the neighbor’s squirrels decide to visit I wonder where I put Daddy’s old rifle.

I know I put it somewhere.