The Southern Flying Squirrel

Look! Up in the sky, it’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s so dark I can’t see! Is it a bat?

No, it’s a wee, nigh to invisible flying squirrel, elusive night flyer rarely seen in the light of day, but he aerially dances in the dark from dusk to dawn, a shadow among shadows.

I’d thought of flying squirrels as foreign creatures, but lo! They’re as Southern as moonlight and magnolias, which I learned from a Mississippi radio call-in show; a caller described a rumpled woebegone critter huddled on her porch. The animal experts identified it as a flying squirrel and chatted on about the only nocturnal tree squirrels. I was stunned. They’d been living right under (or over) my nose. I’d seen bats, lunar moths, owls and other winged nightlife but the only familiar flying squirrel was Rocky the Flying Squirrel of The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, who lives in Frostbite Falls, MN—not MS.

Flying squirrels do fly the friendly southern skies. We’ve even got our own species, the Southern Flying Squirrel, Glaucomys volans, which sounds like a degenerative eye condition. It exists from Ontario to Florida, and down into Mexico and Honduras, so yep, we’ve got ‘em.

Their Yankee counterpart, the Northern Flying Squirrel, glides over Alaska and Canada, dipping west down to California and Colorado and east to Tennessee and North Carolina, encroaching on Southerners’ territory. Though the Northern squirrel is heavier and bigger at nine to fourteen inches, he’s less aggressive than the feisty Southern squirrel, who at eight to ten inches will whip the trespasser’s bushy tail when push comes to shove in overlapping ranges. The two don’t inter-breed, a good thing for Northerners. Otherwise, they look so similar that DNA (or maybe accent) is the only way to distinguish one from the other. Both have soft, silky fur, grayish/brownish on upper body, darker on flanks, creamy white on tummy. Whiskers, eyes and ears seem out of proportion for the small beastie but help him see and sense objects in the dark and hear in the ultrasonic range.

Oversized features don’t hinder flight, which is actually gliding.  A fur covered membrane attached to wrists and ankles acts as a parachute.  Picture this: squirrel climbs tree, checks aerial space and landing options, bobs head up, down, to and fro; once cleared for flight, squirrel flings self from perch, legs and arms widespread; membrane stretches taut; he swoops down and out, turns, twists through tree and limb obstacle course like downhill skier, adjusts membrane tension to control speed, uses flat cylindrical tail as rudder to change directions; approaching landing site, he throws on brakes (screech!), jerks tail up, lands upright; cushioned pads on feet soften impact; sharp claws embed in bark; flight’s over; squirrel does disappearing trick of running around tree to other side to avoid possible predator witness, then trudges up landing tree to  high perch, repeats act of finely tuned airborne acrobatics. (Rocky learned flight skills at the Cedar Yorpantz Flying School.) The taller the tree, the clearer the route, the longer the glide is. One source says a squirrel launched from a hundred-foot pole will travel the length of a football field. Why hasn’t a football team had a flying squirrel mascot? Someone call Ole Miss now!

Hold the phone—forget it. Flying squirrels like their out of the lime lights lifestyle. Being secretive, they’re hard to study, but man has gleaned some facts of their behavior in the wild. Fall is the prime time for sightings. They’re frenetic gatherers and nuts about acorns and hickory nuts. Living in “loose colonies,” they nest high in trees in woodpecker holes or natural cavities, preferring openings too snug for predators like gray squirrels, raccoons and owls. In winter, they pack into a shared nest to stay warm. Come spring they spread out to airy outdoor leafy nests. In the Deep South, they line nests with Spanish moss, palmetto fibers, bark, leaves, feathers and such. Northerners keep tidier homes; Southern squirrels eat in bed and leave crumbs and aren’t well potty trained, though they use separate outhouse nests and other specialized nests. A natal nest of spring and summer is fiercely protected by Mama who snorts, stomps, and literally slaps intruders in the face. (Papa moved to a small bachelor pad pre-birthing.) If the nest is disturbed, Mama moves babes to a refuge nest. Another nest acts as dining room for the kids who, once weaned, eat the same food as she: fruit, flowers nuts, insects, fungi, lichens, mice, carrion, and (oh no!) bird eggs, and nestlings. Well, nobody’s perfect.

If questing for flying squirrels at night, you may try listening rather than looking, but they can defeat this tactic since we don’t hear some of their ultrasonic sounds like the call of youngsters meant for squirrel ears only. Rumor has it they use high pitched sounds for navigation like bats, but sages say not so. A high-pitched “tseet!” is a warning, and they squeal and “chur” when chasing or mating. For the most part, they chirp, chitter and “chuck,” making birdie sounds most of us wouldn’t distinguish from bird calls.

As pets, flying squirrels are engaging and form a deep bond with owners, despite instinctive shyness, if adopted at a young age. Instructions about care and cages can be found online. The problem is their nocturnal nature makes them relentlessly playful by night and drowsy, droopy things by day who’ll nap in a pocket close to their owners’ hearts, which sounds incredibly sweet. Somehow, though, confining an animal whose joy is sky diving at night, whose gliding skill requires tall, tall trees and open spaces seems mean spirited and selfish. If a flying squirrel can’t live in the dark, have his privacy or the agile, loopy flight that is the essence of his being, what’s the point of being a flying squirrel? “What? A caged pet? Me? Hokey smoke!” sez Rocky.

Lucile has now convinced herself she did see a flying squirrel or two but mistook them for bats when she was a child chasing lightning bugs in the countryside south of Natchez. She thinks maybe they glide over Vicksburg’s Military Park before it closes for the night. Hmmm.