When I was in High School, a nest of four orphaned squirrels moved into my dad’s boots – left on the front porch for the mud to dry. They crawled all over all of us – tiny claws catching to hold skin, hair or clothing wherever they wished.
Cute and temporary – they were already old enough to be weaned from their lost mother, and soon grew old enough to fear us and build nests of their own.
She gets aggressive if you have nothing to give her.
First, she crawled up on my shoulder. I was wearing a tank top, so my skin being treated like her tree trunk was not particularly pleasant, but not horrible. I remembered the babies, and she was only a little heavier than they had been, even as a plump adult.
When I held out my open hand saying “I don’t have anything” she nailed my finger – a quick “Ow!” but not enough to send me indoors. She danced around on me – up and back down my legs and back a few times, settling in on my shoulder again for a longer-term harassment session. They had said she didn’t like to be petted – so I figured that would be a gentle way to get her to retreat…
Shortly thereafter, I had a distinctly portly squirrel dangling from my hand by her claws and teeth.
The others were horrified. I was pretty amused.
Washed the cuts with antibacterial soap and there isn’t swelling – I’ve had nastier wounds from my cat Pagan.
At this point, the most amusing part is the horror-stricken city girls – Brett’s sister-in-law and stepmom, who were so appalled by the whole scene and my apparently unusual calm reaction.