The Pinitos

In a perfect world all animals would be “wild.” One animal in particular showed a perverse inclination to enslave and slaughter others. In fact many species disappeared as a consequence. Clearly, man is the wildest of them all, and proud of it. Because of man, I came to shelter two little animals who should have been free in their own world.  

Not my Pinito, but similar.

Pinito the box turtle

Adopted 1965? in Barcelona – died in the 1970s in Barcelona

If not a child, someone who defies appellatives released a small box turtle by a six-lane avenue in the heart of Barcelona. It was dark when through the corner of my young 20/20 eye I saw something small scurrying between and under cars in traffic. A turtle!? I ran to the curb and watched his plight, helplessly waiting for a gap in the heavy peak hour traffic to run to the rescue.  The probability of him surviving such crossing without being cracked under tires was infinitesimal, but he did and I took him home.

My mother was adamant. There had been another pet turtle, Quelonio, shortlived after who knows what deprivations during illegal animal traffic and piled up with others in a pet store window. Like the first one, this turtle had nothing to lose; our home was his only chance of survival. And so I made all kinds of empty promises, including dumping the current boyfriend my mother, Gloria, despised, taking the turtle to the zoo the following day or soon enough, helping with household chores …. At which point she demanded I stop lying and "feed the damned turtle!"  It was a watershed moment: When she saw the helpless and hungry animal take a bite at a crispy leaf of lettuce, and another, and another … she ran for a tomato, washed it, quartered, and offered it to “Pinito” (*). Gloria became the turtle’s chef, caregiver, and best friend. She didn’t know it, or her village upbringing was not to admit it, but she loved animals. So did her father, Timoteo, before her, and I inherited their good genes.

Should anyone doubt that a human-and-turtle bond is possible, doubt no more. Every evening, when my parents and I watched the tube, Gloria would intone “Peee-neeeee-toooooo” in a lilting tone, and soon he would round the corner at full speed, managing remarkable traction on tile. She would swoop him up, call him “guapo” (handsome) to his face, which he projected toward hers already anticipating the neck massage he was about to get while resting on her bosom while watching “Bonanza” or whatever until it was time to turn in. Before depositing him in his enclosure, Gloria would give him a chilled slice of fresh peach, his favorite treat, while reminding him that he was precious, handsome, and that she loved him more than me or my father. He had a good life.

On 22 November 1970 I left home and came to live in the USA. In December 1976 my parents came to live with me in the USA. It was, as it should be, a long process at both ends, which makes the invasion of illegal aliens all the more unpalatable to those who immigrated legally. Only one obstacle was unexpected and insurmountable according to the IMS, the USFWS, wildlife organizations, and our Congressman: Box turtles could not be imported legally.

For Gloria having to leave the turtle behind was a deal breaker. Enter the “pidgeon rescuer” down the street: She lived in a miniscule apartment she got rent free for managing the building, i.e., collecting the garbage from each apartment every night, washing the marble floors of the common areas, asking anyone not known to her where he or she was going and why (great security), and much more; luxuries denied to modern apartment dwellers because the job was “demeaning” and people who were glad to live rent free and get generous tips from the tenants are on the dole. But I digress.

The lady in question truly loved animals and when she got wind of my parents’ dilemma she assured them that a turtle would be a welcome addition to her microcosm of kindness. Gloria, who was loathe of asking for help, much less owing any favors, rewarded her kindness tenfold with gifts and a generous fund to buy bushels of lettuce, peaches, melons, tomatoes, grapes ….

Both times I visited Barcelona in 1972 and 1979 Pinito was still thriving among handicapped pigeons and tolerant cats. He was in a good place. I should have kept up with box turtle importation restrictions, which have since been relaxed somewhat, but I didn’t. Still, even now, I cannot look at a turtle without whispering the name, Pinito.                 

Not my Pinito, but similar.

Pinito the flying squirrel

Adopted October 1974 in Tulsa – died February 1976 in Tulsa

The elderly woman across 18^th Street had decided that two glorious old maple trees in front of her house had to be felled. I couldn’t watch the needles butchery and so I went about the business of opening a walled-in fireplace with a sledgehammer. The roar of chainsaws finally subsided and I heard the men laughing loudly, but I wasn’t about to look at the treeless view until someone yelled “Get it, get it!!”

The unmistakable tone of men misbehaving sent me out the door and across the street. It was a jumble of branches, twigs … plus three men jumping about and stomping on something I couldn’t see. Then I spotted a tiny creature trying to escape. Cussing like a sailor,  I pushed the miscreant aside and cupped the animal in my hands. As I ran home I could feel sharp teeth or claws working on the palms of my hands.

Back inside, lacking a better place to confine the unknown slasher, I put him in an empty drawer. I called my then husband, Bob, at work and the sense of urgency in my voice made him come quickly. Carefully he opened the drawer, reached for the animal, and lo! a baby flying squirrel.

Our veterinarian recommended a certain milk-like product Bob dispensed with an eye dropper. “Pinito” (*) as I started calling him apposite to his innate ability to glide grabbed the tube like a baby grabs a bottle and suckled eagerly. I ran to the pet store and got a gerbil cage with exercise wheel and quite a bit of space. Without a nest and a mother, he would need us until the weather was tempered.

There was little printed information about flying squirrels in pre-Internet times. A little book in the library was written by a British judge who always carried two pet flying squirrels in his vest pocked.  But we didn’t want to confine Pinito; he would return to nature when he could fend for himself.

Meanwhile, nocturnal creature that he was, he slept all day in a fluffy nest I provided inside the cage to protect him from several cats. As soon as the sun went down, he hopped on the squeaky wheel and ‘round and ‘round he went until I secured the cats and let him out. From my shoulder he would climb a curtain. I would walk away, stand a few feet away, swing my arm and he invariably glided toward me. We did this several times. The he would get a nut and eat it perched on a curtain rail …

Pinito loved red wine. His first taste was on his own initiative one evening, looking into my glass his delicate hands clasping the rim, he bravely lowered his head to take a lick. Chirp, chirp, chirp he went up the curtain exhultant. It wasn’t long before he came down for more. Obviously this could become a problem, and two drunks in the family was enough. So we cut him off at two short nightly sips. He lived for the moment. It is noteworthy that when I had champagne in the glass he got very upset and wouldn’t drink. Rodents, I later found out, have issues passing gas.

The weather got warmer and it was time to take Pinito out. Right in our backyard, a stone-throw away from where he was born was thoroughly checked and found to have suitable unoccupied holes. Next to it there was a mature pecan tree, plus we would provide food offerings every day.

Partly because we couldn’t bear leaving him out at night (his natural active time) and partly because we were ignorant, we took him out while it was light. He did climb up the tree, glad to be free. We walked away, and when I turned around to see him he glided magnificently from a great height landing right on my face and clinging to my eyelids.

We took him in. Next day at dusk we made another attempt, and another…. He didn’t want to go. It time to take him to a wildlife rehab center … but I doubt there was one.

The path of least resistance was to keep him. It was wrong, but he would not have survived the wild. As a consolation we greased his squeaky wheel (which drove us nuts all night) but then he stopped using it. Right away we removed all traces of oil, sanded it, and the squeak returned, which pleased Pinito and got him back on the wheel all night.

One of the tensest moments in memory was when Pinito decided to land in the curly top of Majo’s head. This was an Airedale of considerable intolerance for all animals. He put up with the other pets, but Pinito didn’t qualify as such: he was a squirrel and he flew – both good reasons to kill him. Majo’s face simply said: “Let me go ahead, please.” We commanded restraint. Then, Pinito had the audacity to start teasing Mago’s hair fluffing it into a nest. Y now the dog was drooling and the whites of his eyes were visible – not a good sign. Any intervention on our part would have had unforeseeable results, so we just praised his forbearance. He remained motionless, drooling, while the fearless “Pino” settled in the reddish curly nest. Where is a camera when you need one?

One morning, I instinctively checked inside the towel where he slept all day. As my finger reached his little body I knew he was dead. Deeply saddened I pondered our role in his life. We provided all we could for him, except a natural life. He never “flew” from tree to tree with those of his own kind. Tulsa nights used to be filled with the little creatures gliding under the street lights. Would the crushing end from which I saved him have been kinder than captivity? Probably. But death so ignominious under the boot of a miscreant I couldn’t allow.

The flying squirrels that, with bats, enlivened city nights with their aerial shows, are no more. 

^{(*) Pinito del Oro was a famous Spanish aerialist during the 1950s and ‘60s. The name was chosen for the turtle as a playful contrast to his abilities. And although a name given to one of my pets dies with him/her never to be repeate,  I couldn't pass up the symmetry with a flying squirrel.}