The Little Red Tenant: How a Berlin Squirrel Makes a Living Among Us

In Berlin, there’s a park where I go at least twice a week. It’s my go-to spot for walks and wildlife photography: on a good day, it’s possible to see blackbirds getting food on the ground, different species of finches and tits singing, mallards and mandarin ducks in the lakes, woodpeckers on the treetops, grey herons and great cormorants flying by, red squirrels running around (and maybe even a fox looking for food).

On a Saturday morning, in one of my many visits to this park, I found a squirrel near some bushes, and it looked like it was burying something. After that, the little one darted out, crossed the dirt path, and stopped near a bench. It was getting some seeds from there and burying them somewhere else. So I sat a few metres away, on the ground, to snap some shots, and that’s when an older gentleman approached me. He mentioned that there were four of them, and they always showed up roughly in the same place at the same time. Intrigued by this, I decided to look closer at how a wild forager runs like clockwork and makes a living in a human-dominated environment.

I returned to that spot regularly and discovered the reason for their consistent presence: food. While in the wild, the reds have to forage for every meal; in that particular place, they are being fed. Those seeds on the ground weren’t there by accident; some people were leaving them there, and some even hand-fed them. That older gentleman who approached me was one of them.

Driven by their cuteness, humans long to get close to squirrels, but the very hands that want to show them love are unwittingly putting them in danger.

In the wild, without humans, squirrels are foragers. Their diet is composed mainly of seeds, nuts, fruits, and fungi. To prepare for the winter, they gather large amounts of food and bury it. And, to minimise loss, they hide their stash in many different spots around an area, a strategy called scatter-hoarding.

But that comes with a price. Although they have a powerful sense of smell and good spatial memory, some of their caches are lost, sometimes forgotten, and other times stolen (pilferage).

Many of the times I’ve seen them, they had their noses stuck in the ground, burying something. Paws rapidly moving to hide the found treasure, dirt flying around, and sometimes, competition watching carefully, waiting for the opportunity to steal.

Yet the unrecovered seeds earn squirrels the title of accidental foresters, because they sprout and become new trees. In a way, we can say they pay rent by growing trees for us.

In a city park, the situation is different: they don’t need to search for food all the time; sometimes it’s provided.

Creatures with soft fur and big eyes activate a protective instinct that makes us want to care (and even pet) them. Squirrels fit the bill, and that’s why so many people want to get close to them. The problem is less about the act itself and more about its consequences.

When I was young, I used to bake often and make desserts. For a period of my life, I even thought I'd become a professional patissier. The way I see it, peanuts are to squirrels what sweets are to me: delicious, easy, and a fine treat. The problem is the difference: when I decide to go to a restaurant and order a dessert before the main course (or even instead of it) , that’s my choice — I understand the price I’m paying: a potential visit to the doctor. The squirrels, on the other hand, never ordered anything, and suddenly they're served a seven-course dessert tasting. And worse, they have to pay a bill that they can’t read: brittle bones and weak jaws.

But that’s not the whole of it.

In the wild, these animals don’t approach humans the same way they do in the city. They keep their distance because that’s the wild instinct that keeps them safe.

Beyond those two, this closeness brings a third consequence: tameness. Though some people might think this is a good thing, it erodes the wariness that keeps them alive. I once watched one wander into the path of a bike, thankfully nothing came of it, but it left me uneasy.

The very photos in this article are an example of this tamed behaviour: they wouldn’t be possible if the squirrels were more watchful. I never once put food down for them. But if the man hadn’t mentioned their schedule, and if I hadn’t seen others feeding them, I'd never have captured these moments.

I’m thankful to the gentleman who was sitting on the park bench and told me about the squirrels. Even though he’s one of the many who feed the squirrels, I know that comes from a good place. The intentions are noble; the issue is the missing information about this action.

It’s not too late to help the squirrels thrive. Caring doesn’t have to mean getting close and extending a guiding hand. In this case, it can have many different meanings.

The first way of caring for them, though it may not look like it, is to give them space and admire from a distance. We don’t have to get close, feed, pet, or speak to them in a cute voice to symbolise affection and care for them.

Another possibility is to plant the saplings that'll grow and become a source of shelter and food. Wildlife corridors are also extremely important, especially in a world where nature is becoming a concrete jungle. When they have enough trees and a connected path, they can travel through the canopy without having to put themselves in danger of a cyclist’s path, for example.

Supporting organisations specialised in rehabilitating, caring for, and re-wilding them is, of course, another way of helping squirrels.

Just as their jaws can partially recover in the absence of peanuts, they can learn to be wild again and live on their own schedule, instead of ours.

Photos by Fábio Ueno.