How one squirrel changed the way I see my backyard
This story continues a journey that began beneath an old silver maple in my backyard. If you’d like to start there, read The Tree That Keeps Giving. Each story stands on its own, but together they tell a larger story about wildlife, connection, and the places we call home.
For years, squirrels were simply part of the activity in my backyard.
They chased each other through the branches of my enormous silver maple, buried food in the garden, and occasionally found creative ways to raid the bird feeders.
I enjoyed watching them, but I rarely gave much thought to the individuals. One squirrel wasn’t all that different from another.
That began to change when I started trying to get the squirrels comfortable approaching me.
Whenever I spotted one, I’d make a little clicking sound with my tongue and toss it a peanut. At first, they’d come a little closer, hesitate, and retreat.
I was curious whether one might eventually take a peanut directly from my hand.
Then one afternoon, my son Jackson came home from school and went outside with some peanuts.
And wouldn’t you know, one of the squirrels walked right up to him and took one from his hand.
I remember laughing when he told me.
“Did you seriously just feed her by hand?”
I’d been trying to do that for a while, and Jackson had just walked outside and done it. The dudes got that calm confidence they respond to.
Not long afterward, I was sitting outside when that same squirrel approached me. I held out a peanut, and she came close enough to take it.
It was during those early encounters that I began noticing something unusual about her ears.
One looked almost split, while the other had a small, crescent-shaped notch.
For the first time, I had a way to recognize one particular squirrel among all the others visiting my yard.
At first, I called her Brenda. I have no idea why. But eventually, with a little input from Jackson, she became Maddie.
And the name stuck.
A Familiar Face from Winter
It wasn’t until months later, while looking through photographs I’d taken during the winter, that I realized something.
Maddie had been visiting long before I knew who she was.
I’d photographed squirrels climbing the yellow rope of an old swing beneath the silver maple. I’d hung a bird feeder from that rope, and the squirrels had figured out some pretty impressive ways to reach it.
There she was in those older photographs, hanging upside down, climbing the rope, and maneuvering toward the feeder.
At the time, she’d been just another squirrel in the backyard. Now I could recognize those familiar ears.
It was a strange realization. I’d been photographing her life before I even knew who she was.
And it made me wonder how many other familiar visitors I’d been overlooking.
Life in the Silver Maple
As I shared in The Tree That Keeps Giving, the silver maple has always been a busy place for wildlife.
Its massive limbs, rough bark, and sheltered crevices provide opportunities for animals to feed, rest, and raise their young.
For Maddie, it was home.
Around April, I began noticing her gathering nesting material. She carried leaves and other materials into the sheltered spaces where the tree’s enormous limbs came together.
She wasn’t maintaining just one nest, either.
Over time, I noticed her using several different locations. Some were tucked into the silver maple, while another was in a neighboring birch tree. I even watched her carry leaves from the maple, across a roof, toward that other nest. Maybe she was particular to the maple leaves as apposed to the smaller birch leaves, good hypothesis I think.
The more I watched, the more questions I had.
Why did she maintain multiple nests? Was she preparing for young? How often did she move between them? What made one location better than another?
I mostly didn’t have answers, again just hypothesis.
But I was beginning to understand something important about observing wildlife: the more attention you pay, the more there is to discover.
A Busy Spring
By May, the silver maple had become the center of some pretty dramatic squirrel activity.
One day, several male squirrels were chasing each other through the tree, fighting and scrambling along the branches. There was so much activity overhead that leaves kept falling from the canopy.
It went on throughout the day.
As I worked in the garden, it was impossible to ignore the chaos overhead. Poor Maddie. There was a little too much testosterone in that tree that day.
Now I knew Maddie. I’d been watching her build nests, and I could recognize her among the other squirrels moving through the branches.
What might once have been a few squirrels making a commotion in a tree had become part of a much larger story.
As spring turned into summer, I continued watching her.
In some photographs, I could see her prominent nipples, which made me wonder whether she was nursing young.
I also noticed her chewing on an old bone that had been left outside. I’d never seen a squirrel do that before, and naturally, it made me curious. I never found a definite answer, but my best guess was that she was getting calcium from the bone.
I was discovering things about an animal I’d been sharing my backyard with for years.
And all the while, Maddie continued going about her life.
Getting to Know Maddie
Once I could recognize Maddie, I began paying closer attention to her whenever she appeared.
I started keeping a handful of unsalted peanuts in my pocket whenever I went outside. Usually five or so, just in case I encountered a squirrel or chipmunk while working in the yard, always trying to make new friends.
If I spotted one, I’d sometimes stop what I was doing, kneel down, and offer a peanut. If it wasn’t comfortable coming close, I’d toss one instead.
With Maddie, things gradually became a little different.
If I made that familiar clicking sound and she noticed I had a peanut, she’d usually come over. Sometimes she’d approach me on her own while I was sitting outside relaxing, even coming right up to the swing. One time in fact, she must of though my toe was a peanut. Startled both of us but no worries, plenty of peanuts.
But I didn’t want every encounter to revolve around food. I enjoyed watching her go about her day, occasionally offering a peanut when our paths crossed.
One thing I noticed was that Maddie rarely stayed right where she’d taken a peanut.
She’d usually scurry off to a favorite perch where she had a better view of her surroundings. Sometimes that meant climbing onto a branch of the silver maple. Other times she’d settle on the little wooden feeder, a flower box on the deck, or another raised spot in the yard.
Sometimes she’d eat the peanut right away. Other times she’d carry it off to bury it.
I loved watching her cache food.
She’d find a spot, dig a small hole, tuck the peanut inside, cover it with soil, and carefully pat everything back into place. I mean seriously if you ever get to witness the pat down, bucket list material.
Depending on how many peanuts I had, we might repeat the process a few times. Occasionally, she’d even follow me around the yard.
And sometimes, while taking a peanut from my hand, she’d rest one tiny paw against my finger.
That little gesture always made me smile. My gentle little friend.
I never tried to pet her or pick her up. I didn’t want to turn her into a pet.
What I enjoyed was being able to share a few quiet moments with a wild animal that had gradually become familiar with me.
A Knock at the Door
Maddie also developed a habit that we found pretty entertaining.
Every so often, she’d show up at the sliding glass door near my kitchen and dining room.
Sometimes she’d stand on her hind legs and peer through the glass. Occasionally, we’d hear her scratching at the door.
“Hey! Hello? Anybody home? Anyone got a peanut?” in her soft little Maddie voice.
There were times when I’d walk through the house toward the kitchen and find her sitting there, looking inside.
We all got to know Maddie, and even our cats enjoyed watching her through the glass.
Kyra, my dog, had her own encounters with Maddie around the silver maple, too.
Those moments are especially meaningful to me now.
Kyra passed away in July, after almost ten years by my side. When I say by my side I mean literally.
Looking back, I treasure those ordinary moments when Kyra and Maddie were sharing the backyard, each going about life in her own way. Typically Kyra hating Maddies lifestyle choices, but hey I like to think they appreciated each other.
It’s remarkable how an ordinary afternoon can become a treasured memory without us realizing it at the time.
The Possibility of a Family
By October, something else caught my attention.
Three smaller squirrels were spending time around the silver maple.
They were playful, chasing and wrestling with each other near the base of the tree. Sometimes they’d settle together on its branches, resting close to one another.
Watching them wrestle was like watching a little WWE match.
One would leap at another, they’d tumble through the wood chips, and before long all three would be chasing each other again.
All while Maddie was unphased and maybe a little exhausted.
After months of watching her gather nesting material, observing the mating activity in May, and noticing changes in her appearance throughout the summer, I couldn’t help putting the pieces together.
I believe they were Maddie’s offspring.
I wish I had a photograph of all three playing together. But I dropped the ball on that.
Still, I remember the scene clearly.
Three young squirrels wrestling and chasing one another around the roots of an old silver maple, in a backyard where I’d spent years watching wildlife without ever knowing much about the individuals living there.
It was one of those moments that made all the time I’d spent observing feel worthwhile.
More Than Just Another Squirrel
As the seasons passed, Maddie became a familiar part of my days.
I’d hear the scratching of claws against the silver maple’s bark and look up to see whether it was her.
Sometimes I’d find her stretched out along a branch, resting in the shade. Other times she’d be sitting on the wooden platform, eating a peanut, or disappearing into the vegetation with something she’d found.
What surprised me most wasn’t that a squirrel had learned to recognize someone who occasionally offered food.
It was how much I’d learned simply by paying attention to her.
I’d watched her build nests, interact with other squirrels, search for food, and move through the different parts of the yard.
Little by little, the everyday activity I’d once barely noticed had become something I looked forward to seeing.
She wasn’t just another squirrel anymore.
She was Maddie.
Learning to See
When I think about the past several months, it’s remarkable how a creature I thought to be so simple became so meaningful.
I hadn’t set out to develop a relationship with a squirrel. I’d just been spending time outside, paying attention, and occasionally sharing a few peanuts.
But those little encounters encouraged me to look more closely at the life unfolding around me.
The silver maple was still the same tree. The squirrels were still doing the things squirrels do. The backyard hadn’t suddenly become a different place.
What had changed was how I was seeing it.
We share our yards with countless living creatures, each going about its own life, whether we’re paying attention or not.
And the more time we spend observing them, the more opportunities we have to discover their individual behaviors, routines, and relationships. Maybe even make a new friend.
Sometimes all it takes is getting to know one of them to realize how much we’ve been missing.
For me, that one was Maddie.
This story is part of a collection of personal reflections from my backyard. It began with The Tree That Keeps Giving, continued with Maddie, and will explore something more personal in the next story, The Garden That Helped Me Heal.
Coming next: How an ordinary backyard became a place of healing, perspective, and gratitude.
