Read by Matilda Longbottom

One crisp Winter morning, I opened the window to let a bit of fresh air into my writing room when a peculiar sound caught my attention: a rattle, then rapid scratching, a scraping of something against metal, followed by dull thumps. As I listened, the sounds grew more frantic; then came a brief silence. Something, I realized—a bird, hopefully not a squirrel—was trapped in the drainpipe.

I dashed outside to investigate. The drainpipe near the corner of the house was relatively new, installed a few years back when I had a new roof put on. The sound was unmistakable now: claws desperately scratching at metal. I couldn’t be sure if it was a bird or a squirrel—those little rascals that are always poking their noses where I don’t want them —digging up just-planted pansies, toppling containers on my potting bench, and raiding my bird feeders. Despite a metal baffle, they’ve learned to leap above it and gorge themselves. They’re a nuisance, but their acrobatics never fail to amuse me.

Whatever it was, I had to rescue it. Otherwise, it would die in there. The sounds came from about three-quarters down the pipe, too far to have any hope of escape except through the bottom. What had trapped it there? I have my gutters cleaned regularly—well, fairly regularly.

The pipe ended in a curved section, to which I had attached a black corrugated polyethylene tube to drain rainwater away from the house—not particularly attractive but not really visible except from the enclosed porch of my neighbor, who, in eight years, I’d never seen on that porch.

The roofers had fastened the elbow of the drainpipe with a screw. Removing it could free up the drainpipe and release the critter. Piece of cake, I thought. Luckily, after a week of near-freezing weather, it had warmed up. The sun was out, and the temperature edged toward fifty degrees. I trudged back into the house to fetch a screwdriver.

For some reason, the flat-tipped screwdriver that should have worked didn’t. I was stymied, and meanwhile, the frantic scratching and scraping continued, stopping occasionally, which I knew signified exhaustion.

“I’m trying,” I said aloud. “Just be calm; don’t worry, I’m going to get you out.” I still didn’t know if it was a bird or a squirrel, but I sensed it was bulkier than a bird, so probably a squirrel.

None of the various screwdrivers worked. Thirty minutes into this chore now, exasperated, I exclaimed, “You little rascal. How did you get yourself into this fix? Greedy little glutton—serves you right.” Finally, a pair of needle-nosed pliers loosened the screw. After a bit of a struggle, the elbow came off, revealing a dense mat of pine needles, rotted acorns, leaves, gumballs, and mud. I was shocked; the gutter man had been here recently, but this was obviously months’ worth of debris.

“All right, little fellow, you can dig yourself out now.” The desperate clawing resumed, and any second, I thought, the creature would drop out. Nothing. Silence. I tapped on the drainpipe. The scratching resumed but wasn’t making any headway. Uh-oh, I thought, the drainpipe is too clogged for it to dig through. With the screwdriver, I loosened some debris, but not enough.

The sounds in the drainpipe continued but seemed weaker now. What if it died in there? I imagined the smell. And it would be a slow, cruel death. For a moment, I felt helpless. If I couldn’t get it out, I’d have to call Handyman Dan, who would come right over and wasn’t expensive. But darn, I should be able to do this myself.

I looked around. A stick, maybe, with twigs on the end might work. I grabbed a sturdy one and stuck it up the drainpipe, carefully twisting, pulling, and probing. I didn’t want to injure the creature. Clots finally dropped, and then, as I poked gently, I felt a soft mass that must be the squirrel—thankfully not a possum, which would be mushier and thicker. Would I have to reach up in there and pull it down? That could be dangerous—reaching into the teeth of an agitated, snarling rodent.

I stood back; for a second or so, there was no sound. I rapped sharply on the drainpipe above where the creature seemed to be, and with frantic squiggling, scratching, and slip-sliding sounds, a wet, bedraggled gray tail dropped out. I rapped again, and with a kind of whoosh, the squirrel came forth, its fur mussed and matted, its beady little eyes blinking in the daylight, one claw clinging to the pipe. Seeing me, it hesitated as if to scramble back up. “No, no,” I shouted, and tapped again on the pipe. Off it jumped, still a little disoriented, as if wondering, “Where am I, where shall I go?” So, I gave it a light poke with the stick, and it hopped once, twice, thrice short squirrel-hops with its tired little forefeet tucked close to its belly.

I cleaned out the elbow pipe—a solid mass of debris that actually had roots growing in it—and screwed it back onto the vertical drainpipe. The black tube was clogged, too, with rotted debris that had turned to mud. Now, thinking about it days later, it’s a good place for a snake to burrow—maybe Emily, my resident black snake, or one of her offspring, or a hibernating copperhead. That encounter would have given me a fright! Though I’d never seen one in my yard, my neighbor on the other side had.

All told, the task took nearly an hour. But I had done it: rescued the creature and cleared out the drainpipe. If it happened again, Lord forbid, there was now space to scoot down and escape. I was quite pleased with myself.

That night around 2 a.m., I woke to the sound of heavy rain and drifted back to sleep knowing it would drain away nicely. Little beast, you did me a favor after all. ❖

About the Author: Barbara Ensrud is a freelance writer in Durham, NC. Her articles have appeared in Vogue, the Wall Street Journal, Parade, GQ, Food and Wine, and other publications. She enjoys dinners with friends, good wine, yard work (not necessarily in that order), and is a diligent observer of the backyard antics of animal friends and interlopers.