Squirrels don’t normally grab my attention, unless one of them furiously remonstrates with our sliding glass doors, as happens on occasion; or
hides his stash in my wellies; or
comically stars in a social media post. They’re a little too scarily frantic to be comfortable around. The scampy Chompsky is a creaky
elder statesman by comparison.
I passed a dead one on the road yesterday, close enough to the edge so that he had so far escaped being flattened under another set of wheels. His innocent posture, curled in on himself, preyed on my mind until I was forced to turn around and give him, if not
a proper burial, at least the benefit of a relocation service out of the path of further insult.
RIP little guy.
