Wildlife women, unite!

A squirrel exploded.

That was my first thought upon entering the wildlife nursery. Ashley, the floor and the counter were littered with entrails -- no, little tufts of black and brown fur?

“I’m making squirrel hammocks,” she said, holding aloft a pair of shears. Her eyes, peering over a surgical mask, were weary.

She turned her attention back to the counter and the pile of fur coats before her. To the side was a stack of fur segments she had already reduced to washcloth-sized squares.

For those unfamiliar with the super-technical lingo of wildlife care, a “squirrel hammock” is a square or rectangle-shaped cloth pocket hung from the inside of a squirrel cage to provide warmth and shelter. Typically, hammocks are constructed from pieces of colorful felt, but a donated heap of rabbit and mink coats meant new luxe accommodations for the bushy-tailed patients of the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA Wildlife Department.

I too should have opted for a surgical mask while putting the pelts away; bits of itchy fluff clung to my clothes and skin. A trail of tan tufts marked my path down the hall and into the storage closet.

I was alone in the nursery as I swept, and I couldn’t help smiling at the thought of East Coast society women consumed by horror upon seeing the mutilated coats. I was reminded of the hard-hitting, investigativereport I wrote for “The Palm Beach Daily News” when First National Bank discontinued its fur coat storage for residents of The Island (capitalized to emphasize the resort town’s societal significance, of course).

I crafted, mid-sweep, what I considered a clever quip I would treat the next nursery occupant to.

It was Gary.

“How many little old ladies do you think had to die for us to get these coats?” I asked with a smirk.

But instead of rewarding me with laugher, Gary regarded me with thoughtful consideration.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said, slowly. “My wife’s sister-in-law’s mother left her a fur coat in her will. But that was a long time ago, back when we lived in Montana. She doesn’t wear it anymore.”

Gary left and I directed my attention to Squirrel Cage No. 13 and the demon denizen inside; He – the squirrel, not Gary -- attempted to bite me during the last feeding session.

“You better behave, or you’re going to end up like one of these coats,” I told him.

Ashley entered the nursery next, Volunteer Julie behind her. I decided to try again.

“How many little old ladies had to die for you to get all these coats?”

At last, a chuckle.

“I know!” Ashley said. “Who wears fur anymore anyway?”

“Certainly no one on the west coast,” I said.

“But fur is still big on the east coast,” Julie piped in. “In New York, I once sat across from this woman wearing a fur coat on the subway. I gave her the evil eye, and she saw me giving her the evil eye.”

Julie, a professional opera singer, has a flair for the dramatic. I rolled my eyes and related my own experience with the indignant old bitties of Palm Beach. But the subject, like the mothball-infused coats, soon grew stale.

“So, did you see what Renee Zellweger did to her face?” I asked.

“Oh my gosh, I know!” Julie gasped, her eyes expanding to saucer-sized. “I didn’t even recognize her.”

Bad plastic surgery, like questionable fashion choices, is a topic we wildlife women understand.