I hoped for a picture, but not so much so as to disturb it just at that moment. Having established myself as the meanie who must be run from and whose birdfeeder boundaries must be respected, I have to live with that.
I saw one of the black squirrel babies climbing over the edge of something on the patio that made no sense to me–and then I watched as it gagged. Squirrel CPR being beyond me (oh, yeah, that’ll go over well), I held my breath till it was fine again.
I braved the sun time to go see what that was about: it was some water from last week’s brief rain, dripped from the awning and collected in a container with some potting soil in it and thoroughly rottingly gross by now. Mosquito heaven no more–over and out you go.
If it was thirsty enough to drink something that rank… I filled a small clear plastic cup with clean water and set it out at the edge of the porch, wedging it upright.
And was rewarded later to see a baby, the smallest of the litter, holding the lip of the cup in one paw as she lapped up the water; I could see tiny ripples moving in steady rhythm across the top. So much dark fur on a hot day–I bet that drink really hit the spot.
I wonder if providing water will help keep them from the last of my tomatoes; I have no idea. But the satisfaction of watching that tiny animal finding physical relief, a subject near to me, meant much.