Nigel appeared as a squealing, soggy mess. I rescued him from three naughty little boys, who, searching for amusement were practising their aiming skills with their catapults and had dislodged him from his treetop nest. Furious, I leapt to the rescue of this pathetic little bit of half life. To warm him I nestled him inside my blouse.
Nigel was a Bushbaby, one of Africa’s nocturnal delights. Cat-sized, with silky fur, huge fine skinned ears, enormous bulging eyes to aid night vision, and dainty human hands, with perfect little nails, except for a claw on the index finger, which is used for grooming. To aid a steady grip as they land, they urinate on their hands before they leap three to fivemetres through the trees.
For weeks Nigel was either in my blouse or in my hair, he needed warmth, to cling, and the comfort of a beating heart. I looked like a lavatory brush and smelt like a public toilet. My days were relatively peaceful with my fur cap or pulsating blouse. The evenings were a delight as this enchanting creature learnt to plop across the carpet and pounce on treats of moths and cicadae. He tickled the piano keys, played Tarzan on the lampshades and curtains, he even crawled up the chimney descending in an explosion of sneezes. His greatest love was my computer, which he christened with urine. It crashed! He thrived. He grew. He dominated.
Nigel patrolled our bedroom during the nights. We would lie, reading, one eye on a page and the other on our adopted family member. My husband took sleeping and heart pills. Nigel was fascinated and managed to steal one of the heart pills. He gulped it down and several minutes later cart-wheeled round the bedroom in a frenzied flurry, before dropping into a dreamless sleep. This episode was a reminder that perhaps he should be outside where Nature intended.
Nigel’s vigorous enthusiasm for his nightly explorations culminated in his delight with the Christmas tree. The baubles and tinsel were his personal playthings, and we didn’t dare light the candles. It was time to teach him about the big wide world.
A huge aviary outside became his new home complete with rag dolls for company, slung ropes to teach him balance, brightly coloured plastic toys for stimulation and a night light to attract insects for him to catch and munch. I spent an hour with him each evening, sharing my ‘sundowner’, while he partook of his evening meal of fruit and soya meal. After a month of being safely penned, learning about outside smells and noises, I left the aviary door open for him to explore further. His main enemies would be our resident owl family.
A scheduled family visit overseas saw him watched over by our farm foreman, who had strict orders about Nigel’s meal preferences. On our return six weeks later, I went to our favourite thorn tree, clicked my tongue and instantly there was a flurry of fur, a plop on my shoulder, and I was engulfed with love nibbles all over my cheeks and ears.
Nine months passed, Nigel grew, and his fluffy light tail was forty centimetres long. He was a magnificent specimen of Bushbaby manhood, with obvious signs of testosterone emerging. One week he missed several evening meals. I feared that he had fallen prey to the threatening claws of an owl. But to my relief, one evening there was a thump on our veranda roof, clicking followed, and in the tree above I could see two pairs of bright red eyes reflected in the light. He had found a wife! They made several nests around the garden, but chose the bamboo clump for the birth of their babies.
The family expanded each year and populated our garden. It was a haven for these adorable creatures. Only Nigel ventured near us, bounding across the lawn or swinging through the trees to sample my ‘sundowner’ and have his ears scratched or to hug my neck and then dash away to the nightly chore of finding food and checking his territory for intruders.
The privilege of rearing a wild animal and returning it to the wild can have a downside – the knack is to prevent too close a bond and not to allow too firm an imprint – had Nigel bonded too closely? Early one morning I rose to see a pitiful bundle on the lawn. My beloved Nigel had been savaged by one of our dogs during the night. I wept. I had trained my little friend back to the wild, I thought he had integrated well – or so Ihoped. But the longing for continued contact with his human mother had removed his natural caution and instinct for survival. Instead of keeping to the trees he had taken a short cut across the lawn. He wasn’t even a part of the food chain – just a jay-walker who had paid the sorry price.
As I write I can still hear the pitiful shrieks of his forlorn little wife. Her unearthly and plaintiff cries echoed round our home for days. My tears fell each evening as she completed her grieving process and I joined her in spirit.