When I was growing up, as a lad of eight years old, my older sister and I had sort of adopted a backyard squirrel that we called Frisky for lack of a better name. He was overly friendly and would even eat right out of our hands. My mother drew the line when we both asked if it could come indoors in bad weather citing that they carried the rabies virus.

For nearly two months, Frisky would each day come right up our back stairs to get fed. Once, after a bad thunderstorm the night before, we found a dead squirrel in our backyard. It had to be Frisky because he never again mounted our backstairs in order to get fed.

My sister named him Frisky for how he frolicked throughout our backyard. He had ever so much energy to him. We both buried him in our backyard that afternoon and even my dad attended the funeral. I suppose you could call Frisky our first pet of any sort.

A few days later, our parents presented us with our first real pet, a cocker spaniel by the name of Waggles to help us overcome our loss. Yet Frisky was missed nevertheless.

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