Although I loved Lil and Tom, I was somewhat discomfited when they insisted I meet Scampy, a displaced squirrel who recently had relocated to their back yard.
How could they know small rodents made me uneasy?
However, since it seemed important to them, I accompanied Tom onto the patio.
A Bruno Walter phonograph of Beethoven’s Pastorale Symphony Number 6 played on the turntable in the den. It was a personal favorite of the Leatherwoods and myself.
Later, I found irony in the moment, remembering the last notes of the first movement, the allegro ma non tropo.
As you know, this is entitled, “cheerful impressions awakened by arrival in the country.”
After awhile, Tom said, “There’s Scampy,” and he smiled pointing proudly.
Sure enough, in the corner of the yard, sat a fat, fuzzy clump who resembled a mouse-colored John Quincy Adams, one of our presidents.
The adante molto moto (“scene by the brook”) was drifting from the windows as I watched Scampy’s little eyes narrow into a hungry, wanton squint.
“He really has a talent,” said Tom. “First, he will look at you for a bit, then he will hop across the yard like a bunny to you, until he arrives at your feet. Then, he will look at you some more. Then, he will sniff your leg. Then, he will climb up your leg. Thereupon, when he reaches your elbow, if you will extend your arm and hand, palm up, he will climb to the edge of your hand, and sit there.”
I had broken into a cold sweat by the time Tom had reached the part about “sniff your leg…”
Suddenly, Tom’s face went white! “Oh, no!” he said.
Coincidentally, Scampy began his queer little hop toward us.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
By then, Tom was running toward the kitchen door.
“The FEED!!!” he yelled.
Forthwith, from within the house, he shouted, “Sometimes he gets upset when there’s no feed in your hand!
“He bites when he gets mad!”
By this time, Scampy was sniffing of my tennis socks.
Alarmingly, just as Tom described, Scampy began climbing up my leg with his sharp little claws (later, I found several “pull” places in my gabardine walking shorts).
As he reached my elbow, I extended my arm and hand, palm up, as instructed.
Scampy scurried to the edge of my palm, then stopped.
He looked at the empty hand with an expression of disbelief. He turned, looking at me…his face contorted into a wicked, contemptuous scowl.
Then, he BIT MY HAND!!!
Inside, I could hear the allegro (“the thunderstorm, tempest”) exploding from the hi-fi as I danced wildly around the yard, struggling with the hateful, nappy, buck-toothed Shi-ite who hung to my finger like the most seasoned bronco rider!
Somehow, I was able to get a grip on his unctuous pelt — 
and I threw him, like the hardest fastball, in the direction of a woodpile, a good twenty yards away.
He hit the woodstack hard.
He lay lifeless.
I feared that Scampy was dead.
Then, abruptly, he bounced back to consciousness, instantly shaking his head.
He looked back at me dazed.
Then, straight away, he turned and hopped from the yard.
About this time, Tom bolted from the back door, feed streaming from his hands.
“Sorry it took me so long,” he said. “Where’s Scampy?”
“He just scampered away,” is what I replied.
Later, Lil and Tom and I had cocoa and sugar cookies in the kitchen as the fifth movement, the allegretto, spun on the turntable…
“glad and grateful feelings after the storm.”
