Oh, Nuts! An Ill-Timed Run-In With Rusty

Before I could answer, the second bystander, a woman, emptied her purse, picked up the wounded squirrel in her bare hands (in my head, my mother's voice was saying, "But you don't know where that's been!") and slid it headfirst into her bag. The squirrel's russet tail stuck straight up, like a twitching, furry umbrella handle.

"Poor baby!" the woman cooed in an Australian accent. "We'll take care of you!"

As it turned out, poor Rusty could not have fallen into more qualified hands.

The man, his rage now somewhat abated, turned back to me.

"We're members of the Animal Rescue League of Sydney," he said.

"You're kidding," I stammered, unable to believe my bad luck. A million squirrels in Washington, and I had to run over the one that was under observation by international animal rights activists.

"We're wildlife rescue technicians," the man continued in a take-charge tone. "We'll need to get this squirrel to an animal rescue center right away."

I suspected that "rescue" really wasn't in the cards for Rusty, but the situation was literally out of my hands. Still feeling terrible about the accident and none too sure of the emotional state of my new acquaintances, I decided to follow their lead.

We went to the ranger kiosk near the Lincoln Memorial. I pushed my bike while they carried the squirrel purse and other assorted gear.

If this were Sydney, the woman fumed, the animal rescue workers would already be here!

At the kiosk, the Aussies explained they were looking for an animal shelter to tend to an injured squirrel. The woman brandished her purse, Rusty's still animated tail jutting up from it.

"He ran the poor bugger over with his bicycle!" she exclaimed, pointing at me.