Muriel Parson’s children were annoying. Not in the Mummy, I want milk, or Mummy, wipe my bum, or Mummy I found a bird on the sidewalk but can’t find its head, type of annoying. Because they were adults with kids and lives of their own. Skip and Lila Parson were annoying her with their worry. They’d stop by the townhouse unannounced, right as she was about to have her afternoon martini in her herb garden. They’d call (repeatedly) on the house phone while she was right in the middle of an evening Peaky Blinders marathon. They would have regular and pointless “gifts” sent to her door from Amazon which forced poor Muriel to leave her pruning to dash inside and lay on the old, wooden floor to avoid having to engage in a lengthy conversation with Mr. Evans, the postman. They were this kind of annoying.
Now, Muriel wasn’t born yesterday. She knew that both her son and daughter were worried about her being alone since her husband had passed away the previous autumn. But it was a waste of time. She was fine. She had her garden and her walks and she hadn’t spent her lifetime looking for the perfect gin to not finally enjoy it. The only thing about her life that she would like to change, was the constant badgering from her offspring. She told them as much.
“But, Mum,” her eldest, Skip, would insist, “you can’t be all alone in that house. It’s not good for you. Come on, move in with me and Sarah and the kids.”
Muriel didn’t particularly enjoy living with small children when they were her own and had zero interest in doing so a second time. And she’d learned her lesson about her daughter-in-law’s cooking the hard way during their first Boxing Day together. Her children were stubben brats that didn’t seem to hear her repeated “No's. Muriel huffed, “They must have gotten that from their father”.
“You know, son, for a therapist, you are an awfully terrible listener. I told you before and I’m telling you now: I’m fine.” Skip did not listen. He was busy billing other people for listening to them. In fact, he even forgot he was on the phone. He did wish his mother would just leave the old three-floor flat. He wished that she would get rid of the endless boxes of who knows what, donate the dying furniture to a landfill, and spend the rest of her days knitting in his spare room, and maybe babysit so he and Laura could finally have a regular date night. But, really, no no, it was for her. Why was she being so stubborn? Was Muriel truly as fine as she thought?
Sure, she could be a bit lonely. She found herself at the pet shop buying cat food for the strays who slipped in and out of the rubbish bins that lined the alley behind the house. And, yes, sometimes, after it had gotten quite late and the whole neighborhood was quiet, she’d find herself puttering around her old home, muttering out loud bits and pieces of conversations running through her brain. More than once, she’d caught herself accidentally setting two place settings at the sun-stained formica table. But surely none of these moments were reasons to move in with shouty grandchildren, a son who was a shitty listener, and a daughter-in-law who seemed to have permanently lost her salt shaker. Being lonely and alone were two entirely different situations as far as Muriel was concerned.
“Maybe get a dog?” Skip was now shuffling through his chaotic desk. A dog was always a good suggestion. He offered the idea to all of his clients who’d lost a loved one or needed purpose or, to be honest if he was totally drained of all other ways to get them out of their homes. But, as we told you, Skip was not a good listener and Muriel had already hung up the phone because she didn’t want to be late for her weekly ladies' poker game at the corner cafe. So, she didn’t hear the part about the dog. Nope, because Muriel had heard enough. What she heard was that Skip was sick of worrying about her, that she was a burden, and that the way she was living needed to change. And she didn’t like it one bit. She did, however, like Lady’s Poker.
The cafe was in what the kids would call an ‘up and coming’ neighborhood and had been there for as long as Muriel could remember. It was near the fish shop and she would treat herself to a scone on Fridays when she did the grocery shopping. The sweet, warm air was a welcome respite from the hectic pace of life and motherhood and she would find herself lingering over the pastries just to absorb more of the buttery breeze even though she always ordered the same thing. Muriel’s memory danced down the lane, clocking the children’s early grade school years when they would accompany her on her shopping trips and stop for a tea and a biscuit. Then she remembered Skip and Lila riding their bicycles down the cobblestone street, carrying her purchases in their front wheel baskets. She remembered them getting their driver’s licenses and insisting on doing the errands for their mum, mostly as an excuse to borrow the car, and then she stopped in her tracks and thought about her late husband. Since he passed, she had no one to cook fish for. Because, the truth - yes, after all these years, the truth, was that Muriel didn't even like fish.
Stepping into the cafe, Muriel grinned at the sight of her long-time girlfriends. They’d known each other for decades. They’d seen each other through it all - the scraped knees, a cheating husband, an intercontinental move and then return; new jobs, difficult bosses, prom dress shopping, weddings, funerals, and grandchildren. But that’s not what they discussed at their weekly card game. As Muriel undid the bottom button of her purple cardigan and placed her handbag on the back of the ancient wood chair, she was immediately thrown into the deep end of the gossip pool.
“Did you hear that my Jenny’s sister-in-law Dorothy is having an affair with the roof repairman? Apparently, he just dropped into her bed one night.” Greta had always been the life of the party. And over the years, it was really she whom the rest of the group could credit for insisting that they all make their weekly card game. She was, by far, the most socially motivated of the pastel-clad widows. She was the one who you could always call for an impromptu glass of sherry or a walk to the park to feed the ducks. Greta was the one who actually missed having her children around. But she would never admit it.
And the ladies would laugh. They’d chuckle themselves silly. They’d drink more tea than any human being should and impacted the corner cafe’s bottom line with their biscuit bill. These were glorious afternoons. But this one on this day, in May of 2023, there had been an unusual amount of heartache amongst the group and they really, really needed the company. So the game went on for hours. It was supper time when Greta declared that she needed three things: fish, chips, and a pint. So the bill was paid, the teacups cleared, the crumbs brushed away, and the foursome of Golden Girls made their way down two blocks and into the pub.
And that’s where they stayed. The greatest piece of this lifelong friendship was that none of the women needed to explicitly say that they needed each other. It was just understood. So the afternoon spilled into the evening and it was well past nine when Muriel found herself behind the wheel of her green sedan, heading home and Greta gabbing a million miles an hour in the passenger seat. Muriel glanced over at her friend who was busy listing pros versus cons of making your own pie crust. Greta was lonely. But, she also had very good eyesight. Which is why Muriel didn’t hesitate when Greta screamed, “STOP!” and braced her hands on the dashboard.
And Muriel skidded the sedan to a halt in the misty dark night, it took her a moment to see what her friend had spotted a few meters earlier. It was small, maybe the size of an apple. The light rain beaded off of its spiky back and its head was curled under its prickly armor. Now, the sight of a hedgehog on the back roads wasn’t necessarily a unique experience, but a young, itty-bitty fellow all by itself was a cause for concern.
“I know,” said Greta who, in fact, did not know, “the mother must have abandoned him. Or she was hit by a car. Or, there could be something wrong with him and they had to leave him behind. This is why I always tell my Daniel that he’s lucky he’s not a hedgehog.” Greta, in fact, had never said this to her youngest son but, to be fair, she had thought that specific statement on numerous occasions.
Muriel pulled the car over to the side of the road, flipped on her hazard lights, and tied the plastic bonnet that she kept in her glove box for moments such as this over her brightly permed hair. Then, because she was in need of a car cleaning, she was able to locate both a magazine and a shoebox from the backseat.
“We will get him in this way,” Muriel declared, the light cloud of rain settling on her warm skin, the minuscule droplets visible through the beams of the headlights. She crouched down to get a better look at her new animal friend.
“GLORIOUS,” Greta replied, wrapping her pea coat around her ample behind, slamming the car door, and then holding onto the rearview for balance. Greta had drunk three pints at dinner and was thoroughly enjoying herself and this unexpected adventure. She’d tried to stay occupied in her day-to-day life. She’d joined a walking group and half-assed a watercolor class since the teacher reminded her of a young Sean Connery. Greta volunteered at the animal shelter and actually enjoyed making new recipes in the kitchen. But, if she were being honest, she was bored. And this was more excitement than she’d encountered since she found out about Dorothy and the roof repairman.
The two 70-something women managed to get the little guy into the shoebox with no help from the hedgehog himself. Muriel fished her handkerchief out of her handbag and laid it gently over his prickly back, the rain droplets soaking into the checkered silk.
“I would bet you that hedgehogs make excellent pets,” Greta declared.
Muriel tried to hold back a chuckle, imagining Greta in her dressing gown and velcro rollers, trying to cuddle with this spiky creature in her bed. But Muriel wasn’t one to make a fuss and was happy to have rescued the animal before another car zoomed right over him. This road would take you right to the shopping mall and she was sure that there would be traffic when the cinema closed.
“Alright, let’s get him home.”
The two women gabbed excitedly for the rest of the ride. Greta insisted that she would stay over so they could take turns keeping an eye on their new charge and Muriel didn’t argue. She knew that Greta didn’t want to go home to her large, empty house. She made her friend comfortable in the guest room after they decided to put the shoebox on top of a hot water bottle to make sure that Sir Harry The HedgeHog Mountbatten-Windsor was warm and comfortable.
“He’ll be fine over the weekend. Then on Monday, we can take him into the shelter and get him checked out.” Greta was sure of her plan. It all sounded good to Muriel.
The next morning, Muriel and Greta busied themselves running errands. They bought straw, placed it in an old laundry hamper and transferred Sir Harry while wearing a pair of oven mitts. You can never be too careful when a hedgehog is concerned.
That night, they ordered takeaway curry and sat in the garden with a bottle of wine, laughing and reminiscing about old times. 70 years is a real number. But somehow, so much of it had gone by in the flutter of an eyelash. They laughed about the shenanigans their offspring had gotten into over the years. They shared their worries about the modern world and the amount of time that their grandchildren spent on iPads.
Greta told Muriel about hitting the wrong button on the phone and answering her granddaughter’s video call while stark naked in her dressing room. It was a warm night. The sound of the crickets in the garden mostly drowned out the cars on the other side of the fence. The air was still and fragrant and Muriel felt momentarily grateful for the new, cushioned chairs that Skip and Lila had delivered from Amazon. She and Greta had been sitting there for hours and her bum felt just fine, thank you very much.
They brought Sir Harry grubs and worms from the wet earth surrounding Muriel’s rhododendrons and a few lettuce leaves from the refrigerator. But the little fellow didn’t seem interested in supper.
“He’s probably in shock,” the women concluded. “We’ll let him be and see what they say at the rescue. I should probably stay over again,” Greta reasoned.
That Sunday, the women went to the gardening store and bought a few brightly colored flowers to add to Muriel’s beds. Then they drove back over to the cafe for tea and a scone. The conversation turned to Sir Harry.
“If,” Greta made a dramatic pause, “he cannot take care of himself, we will of course have to keep him.”
Muriel sipped her tea and nodded. She’d already become quite fond of their new housemate. He didn’t move much but he’d dried out and she couldn’t wait to get a glimpse of what she was sure was an adorable face.
“And then, we will have to get him a friend.” Greta had clearly given the trajectory and comfort of Sir Harry’s life quite a bit of thought. “Hedgehogs shouldn’t be alone. And,” she apparently wasn’t done. Muriel took the last bite of her scone, “You have plenty of room in the screened-in porch. We could have a whole hog sanctuary.”
Muriel let out a snort. It was an absurd mental image even if it was a, well, sort of fun idea. The women enjoyed the afternoon. They parked the car near their favorite dress shop and wandered the streets of their beautiful city. Neither had moved that much in years and were both exhausted by the time they’d gotten home. But, Sir Harry didn't seem particularly happy to see them one way or the other.
“The rescue opens at 8:00 and we will be on those steps at 8:01.”
And, they were.
Dressed in slacks and wellies as it was another rainy day, Muriel and Greta were the first appointments at Canary Wharf Animal Rescue and they were ushered right into the vet’s office. Two seventy-something ladies clutching an old shoebox with a rescued baby hedgehog were, of course, an interesting sight.
The women paced impatiently after filling out the paperwork and being led into the sterile cubicle.
“What if he needs a shot?” Muriel wondered out loud, “How will they keep him still?” As they discussed the potential outcome and medical needs of Sir Harry, Dr. Billings walked into the room.
She was a stout woman who had never had any children of her own but had devoted her life to keeping strays off of the streets of London. She herself was known to take in pregnant feral cats and three-legged dogs. You would never know by talking to her that she was indeed, a genuine softie, but in the years that Greta had been volunteering at the institution, she witnessed Dr. Billings talking in a baby voice to a flea-infested chihuahua more times than she could count.
After recounting their harrowing experience rescuing this poor, defenseless little creature from the side of a highway in a torrential downpour, really a tornado if you were being honest, Dr Billings took some notes. She then did not put on oven mitts but instead placed a pair of gloves specifically meant for this type of examination on her hands. Then she opened the shoebox.
“He doesn’t move much,” Greta offered.
“I’m not even really sure he’s eaten,” Muriel chimed in. And, after Dr. Billing's very quick examination, these two observations made a lot of sense. And, no, sir Harry was not dead. And he wasn’t injured. He wasn’t bleeding or unhappy or hungry or thirsty or in need of any medical care whatsoever. This is the good news. The bad news, however, surprised the two now very invested hedgehog mothers. Because Sir Harry was not a hedgehog at all. Sir Harry was a pom pom.
Yes, you heard that right. The item that did, admittedly from the entire animal rescue staff, look identical to a baby hedgehog curled up under itself was actually the top of someone’s winter hat. Small and round with brown and white and black spikes, it would have been the perfect baby hedgehog substitute in any high-budget motion picture. And Murial and Greta weren’t even embarrassed. Sure, they shared a laugh with Dr Billings and examined the pom pom over and over themselves in what could only be described as genuine disbelief. But the truth of the matter was that, well, both women were deeply disappointed. And what did they do with those emotions?
Two things:
One, that day, they left the animal shelter with Sir Harry The Second, a three-legged hound mix who they would dote over unapologetically for the next decade and, two, Greta moved in with Muriel. And Muriel’s children stopped bothering her. They did, however, continue to be annoying. But, it turned out, that was simply a result of their personalities. Now Greta talks to the Postal Delivery man and Muriel no longer has to hide.
Now, no one is alone. But the story went viral, and you can see Sir Harry the Pom Pom at the link in our show notes.
Sweet dreams…
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