I drove over a squirrel today. It was an accident. The little bugger scooted out in front, and paused, staring the car down. I had a split-second to decide if it was smart enough to stay still and let the car harmlessly drive above him; or should I try to turn, with the assumption he’d get the hell out of there, so a tire wouldn’t flatten it. Well, I decided wrong: he moved, I didn’t. My daughter was in the car at the time, but I didn’t say anything.
Damn cars.
I killed a squirrel in the same manner a few years ago. I was driving down a road out in the country, and the little bugger darted in front of the car before I could do anything — I mean, I suppose in that split second of could have tried something, but what are you gonna do? In that split second, however, I did think, “Don’t move.” But what I should have thought is, “Put your head down,” because when I looked in the rear view mirror, there he was middle of the road, not moving. “Shit.” I stopped the car, turned around, and drove up slowly in the other lane. Yeah, he was dead. Freshly dead. No guts poking out, just a big cut on his head. “Aw, man.” I know, big deal, it’s just a squirrel. But I felt a genuine pang of saddness looking at that dead squirrel… Stupid squirrels.