It's orphan season.

I was sitting here drafting a memo on how the Jackson folks can fix the problems with their deer seasons (always fun to solve someone else's problems... anyone want to take care of mine for me?) and there's a knock on the door.

I can't hear the knock. I'm in the basement. But you can easily hear the thumps on the ceiling and the excited yips of the heelers as they all three charge the door.

Youngest son comes down to fetch me, and I go up to greet the woman at the door.

There's a sick or injured squirrel by the post office.

So I grab gloves and a box, and walk on over.

It's a full grown fox squirrel, not doing well at all. Left eye won't open, poorly coordinated, not alert, but fairly mobile.

Probable head injury, probable vehicle collision.

He was alert enough to peek out over the top of the box as we walked home.

No, squirrels don't go to the vet. And no, there are no wildlife rescue outfits in this country. And certainly not for squirrels.

If I was foolish enough to waste half a day of my time and about 20 gallons of gas, I could take it to the Audubon folks in Central City. But they would probably just feed it to their owls.

No, I'm all they get, and that ain't much. A quick end if that is what seems best, or a chance to recover (or expire) in peace and quiet if it appears they may recover on their own.

He's still in the box (open top... if it gets well enough to leave, okay), under the shade of the cherry tree in the backyard. Has water, and peanuts.

Slid a peanut under his nose, and he tried rolling it around, so I shelled some others and scattered them in the box. Squirrel knew they were there, but was not coordinated enough to eat.

We'll see.

Shortly after I returned to my memo, before another word was written, I hear the heelers tearing across the ceiling again. I go up to find three local boys with a baby grackle in their hands.

Found him in the street by the park. They say the wings are broke, 'cause it can't fly. Examine said bird, and wings are fine. It's just that the feathers are too short. Too immature.

So we hike back to the scene of the crime, by the Civil War cannons in the island in the divided road. As we pass the post office, a grackle lands on the wire above us and starts scolding. Scolds all the way back to the park. Youngster manages a chirp back.

At the park, we have two adult gracks squawking at us. I point them out to the three boys. They're starting to feel bad, so I tell them thanks for their help, but point out next time they should just scoot the chick off the road and then leave it alone.

We do that, and they head off to play, and I get back to finish the memo.

Now I have to go to the post office to get the mail. Been there twice already, and never thought to check the mail while I was there.

The three heelers will appreciate the walk.