Even as a child I was always sensitive to the circle of life, the shortness of it and the suffering we must all endure. I couldn't stand to hear of the copperhead snake my mother had killed in our backyard with a shuffle in order to defend her children. I sobbed when I heard the rat traps go off in our attic one night after the city had cleared the brush behind our house and they had found refuge in our ceilings and walls.
I still can't hear about hunting without feeling squeamish and the idea of someone close to me dying, as far off as it might be, is often times too much for me to bear.
So you can imagine how horrible it was to hit a squirrel with my car this morning as I was driving to work. I was only a few blocks from my house when it happened. I zigged. It zagged. It zagged again, and just when I thought I had missed it and avoided tragedy, my back tire made a "thump."
As afraid I as I was to look in the rear view mirror and see what I had done, I made myself do it.
I killed a squirrel. I'm a squirrel killer.
It is the only life outside of some ants, spiders and the occasional quarter-sized mouse, that I have ever taken. And when it happened I didn't stop because there were cars behind me, I was afraid I might catch some disease from the poor thing, and, well, because I was in shock.
So, I guess I just wanted to say this so I could make my peace with it: "I'm sorry Mr. or Ms. Squirrel. I didn't mean to do it and if I could I would undo it and somehow spare your life."
With that said, Mr. or Ms. Squirrel, may you rest in peace.