A Twist in the Tail

I used to be terrified of neonates. Not because I disliked them—far from it—but because I was afraid I’d accidentally hurt them. Was I holding them too tightly, cutting off their blood supply? Or too loosely, so they might slip and tumble to the ground? These were the thoughts swirling in my head as I waited for a friend under a tree outside the hospital where I worked in Delhi.

That’s when I noticed something tiny, seemingly alive, at the base of the tree. Encounters like these are often the first step toward being drafted into the long-term care of another living being. It’s not necessarily a bad thing—unless the creature doesn’t survive. Then it becomes a haunting memory you replay for months.

On closer inspection, it wasn’t a fledgling bird (which, admittedly, you wouldn’t expect on the ground either). It was a squirrel.

I had always wanted a pet squirrel. Suddenly, I had the chance—though this one was a baby, eyes still sealed shut. The usual AVPU scoring wouldn’t apply, but at least it was breathing, with no obvious injuries and no gang of ants devouring it alive.

Back in my small room, I now had a baby squirrel in a shoebox—and a gaping hole in my knowledge of squirrel care. I started calling friends and trawling the internet. One friend put me in touch with a vet uncle, and I also stumbled upon a brand-new squirrel-care website. The homepage read:

“SquirrelNutrition.com was established in 2009 in response to all the disinformation on the internet regarding the care and feeding of squirrels.”

Bill, the owner, responded quickly.

Armed with his instructions, I began caring for the baby. The goals were simple: keep it warm, keep its blood glucose steady. I fed it every four hours, which helped me understand instantly why new parents always look exhausted. Just like interns and residents.

And then, one day, as I was feeding him—and stimulating him to pee, which is how I knew it was a ‘him’—he opened his eyes. One small step toward eventual discharge from my care into an independent squirrel life.

Bill kept in touch, encouraging me and offering advice. He identified the baby as a palm squirrel and said they make fun, interesting pets. It was my first experience with telemedicine, and I was impressed by its potential.

But telemedicine has its pitfalls. Experts only know what you show them. One day I noticed something unusual: the tail was long, but not bushy. I sent Bill a photo. He confirmed my suspicion. The baby wasn’t a squirrel at all. It was a rat.

Luckily, the care plan was the same. Bill assured me rats are intelligent and can make great pets, too. It felt like one of those relationships where your mind makes you believe your partner is someone they aren’t—and one day reality strikes. The illusion is gone, but that doesn’t mean the real person isn’t interesting. You just need to adjust your expectations.

Unfortunately, that’s not how this story ended. I overslept one night, and the baby died—presumably of hypoglycemia. A mental incident report was made, and I promised myself I would be more careful in the future care of all my patients.