The Nuthouse

My son recently returned from a 10-day trip to Norway full of vivid stories of how - as he put it -  "the Norwegians have it all figured out." He ticked off one thing after another - an effective rail system, fuel-efficient cars, clean cities, modest diets, cultural frugality, healthy lifestyles, and a generous, family-friendly national government.

No, this is not an impossible comparison between the United States and those pesky, homogeneous Scandinavians. We would suffer by contrast - with our far flung borders, super-sized lusts, crumbling infrastructures, craven consumerism, and a gridlocked government still driven by an antiquated 19th century notion of Rugged Individualism that has more contempt for the poor than compassion.

Apples and oranges. Instead, this story is nothing more than a recollection of my encounter with a squirrel and his nuts.

My deck overlooks a large backyard filled with numerous trees. Right before last weekend's big chill I wrestled my stiff, dry Christmas tree onto the deck, where I expected it to remain until March. And that's when I saw him.

A healthy, grey squirrel - seemingly in the prime of his years - was squawking loudly at the base of a large oak tree. He looked pretty pissed, actually - and louder than I've ever heard a squirrel chatter before.

"Hey there little guy," I inquired absently. "What's all the fuss about?"

Sitting back on his haunches, he looked up at me and squinted, putting his foreleg over his eyes to shade them from a sun that was brightly shining over my shoulder. "Not that it's any of your business Two Legs, but I'm trying to talk to someone about my nuts. During the winter they're stored in The Nuthouse here," he jerked his clawed thumb to indicate the big oak tree directly behind him.

After taking a few moments to recover from the shock of hearing a squirrel speak I asked, "I don't get it - don't you keep the nuts you collect in your own tree?"

"No," the squirrel said disgustedly, as if a dumber question had never been uttered. "Every squirrel who lives in The Lowlands (apparently my backyard) keeps his or her nuts in a central storage facility. The Nuthouse. It's safe, secure and dry. Wet nuts are the worst. Ya gotta keep yer nuts dry (duly noted). I never have to worry about my nuts here. None of us do."

"Sounds like a nice arrangement," I said hesitantly, now fully grasping that I was conversing with a squirrel. "But if The Nuthouse is so great, why all the noise a minute ago? Don't your kind typically get the nuts you need and then go on your way?"

"Access to our nuts isn't the problem," the squirrel said emphatically. "In fact, we rarely have to deal with any customer service representatives. We call 'em Shellies. They are shelled nuts in our opinion." The squirrel chuckled at his own joke. "No, all the nuts we need come out of this ANM. It's activated by our paw prints. Each print is different. That way, no one else can grab our nuts."

Huh. Everything the squirrel told me made perfect sense. Still, I wasn't sure how an ATM-style nut dispenser had gone unnoticed in my backyard for nearly two years. "Okay, so what's the problem then? Don't you have enough nuts stored up in your account to make it through the winter?" The squirrel didn't look malnourished, but what the hell did I know? An entire civilization was flourishing right under my nose and - up until now - I had been wholly ignorant.

"You're not too bright, are you Two Legs." I confessed that I had had better days. "Sorry to hear that, but I'm perfectly fine. Me and my kind do well here in The Lowlands. Most of us have more nuts than we know what to do with - plenty to make it through many winters to come. In fact, I'm certain many of my nuts will go uneaten when I finally leave this place."

"When that happens, will your nuts be given to the other squirrels in the backya. . . . er, The Lowlands?"

"Nope. Whatever I don't eat will be destroyed by the Shellies."

Does that bother you?" I asked.

"Of course it bothers me," the squirrel replied testily. "My nuts are my nuts. Why should The Nuthouse decide what happens to my nuts?" He sighed wearily. "But as long as our nuts are centrally stored, we have to follow the Tail Thumpers' rules." Seeing my confusion, the squirrel explained that Tail Thumpers were bureaucrats. The rule makers. Nut pinchers.

Familiar with exasperating  but necessary bureaucracies, I replied, "Well, that makes sense. The Nuthouse can't have a different set of rules for every squirrel. That would be chaos, wouldn't it? Don't you see the problems that would present? Say, I'm getting cold out here. What exactly is frustrating you?"

"Well you're a cold-blooded species, ain't ya?" the squirrel retorted scornfully. "Like I was saying, most of us have a surplus of nuts. I've been badgering the Shellies and the Thumpers for days now about my extra nuts." Anticipating my question, the squirrel continued. "I've been around a while. Over time I've gotten better at gathering nuts. Makes sense, right? More time, more nuts. Anyway, some of the newbies aren't as skilled at gathering. Times like these are hardest on them. In fact, there are a couple of squirrels I'm pretty worried about."`

"Why don't you veterans just share your nuts with the newbies?"

"That's the problem. The Nuthouse has this silly rule that says Your Nuts are Your Nuts. No Sharing, No Exceptions. They even have this slogan on posters. The Shellies keep lamimated copies hanging above their customer service windows in The Nuthouse."

I quietly digested the implications of such a draconian rule. "Let me get this straight. You aren't in control of the nuts you earned with your own sweat and effort. And you can't share your surplus with anyone else - including squirrels who might not collect enough of their own nuts to make it comfortably through the winter? Sheesh, and you called me cold-blooded."

After hearing this recitation of life in The Lowlands, the squirrel grimaced. "It wasn't always this way," he said. "There has been a change happening in The Lowlands for some time, and I don't think it's been a good one. The squirrels in charge used to have our best interests at heart. They served us; and listened to us too. Our great storehouse  used to be called The Conservatory. Sounds nice, right?But the name change brought a change of attitude along with it. The Nuthouse started caring more about how many nuts they could amass, rather than who the nuts were for. There are other squirrels who feel the same as me but the Shellies and Tail Thumpers just shout us down, or tell us to take a number, fill out a form. We've learned the best way to keep the nuts we have is to say nothing - no tail quivering. Too much tail quivering means exile."

"What's your plan then?"

The squirrel grinned mischeviously. "I aim to misbehave. No change worth having didn't involve a little tail quivering. I'm going to remind the Shellies and Thumpers that the Lowlands is the home of the squirrels, not just our nuts."

I sensed our conversation was nearing its end. "Would it help if I talked to them, the Tail Thumpers?"

The squirrel smiled ruefully. "No, I don't think so. To be honest, until you and I talked, we thought your kind were all mindless apes."

I laughed. "Sometimes we still are." And as I watched the squirrel return to its familiar patterns and rhythms, I couldn't help adding, "Hey, take care of yourself okay? And good luck."

"You too, Two Legs. You go your way and I'll go mine - but I hope for your kind's sake it's in a different direction. My advice - share your nuts. You can't take 'em with you."

At that I couldn't agree more, and was left wondering what Norwegian squirrels might be up to in their little corner of the world. Sharing their nuts, I'd guess.