Burying the Squirrel

Thanksgiving Day, 2019. A sunny afternoon. I took a long walk by the river. The last of the geese huddled in the cold – a great mass of feathers in the ‘rest area’ beside the ponds. I’m amazed that they find that spot twice each year, once in late fall, once in early spring.

In the street a few yards from my drive, a squirrel lay on his back, feet in the air. I knew I couldn’t leave him there to be further flattened.

I trudged to my house, retrieved a shoe box and my gardening gloves. The poor little guy! Hit in the head, probably dead in an instant. I carried the box to my small garden area. The soil here is clay; I hope I dug deep enough.

When finished, I turned to the grassy area under the oaks and admonished the other squirrels not to cross the street. I hope he isn’t the one that often hangs upside down on the trunk of an oak and appears to watch me through the window.

I’ve hit animals in my own car twice.

The first time, I was not yet twenty, driving on a highway from Riverside back to my parent’s home. A beautiful drive between rows of eucalyptus trees. I saw the critter but couldn’t avoid him. What a sick feeling! There was nowhere to stop, so I drove on, apologizing over and over.

The second time, I was in my sixties. Driving over 30th Avenue – a 55 MPH zone - from Eugene at night, a large cat dashed in front of my car, hit smack in the middle of my front bumper. I pulled over, unsure what to do. I called the non-emergency police number. “Should I move it? It’s in the middle of the lane.” They said “No, too dangerous. Thanks for reporting.”

Before I left, another car hit the poor beast. I expected the police to remove the carcass but they didn’t. That sick feeling recurred for weeks each time I passed the spot until the piece of fur was flat and shifted to the center of the road. Eventually, it disintegrated, absorbed into the dust and dirt from passing cars.

And so, on Thanksgiving Day 2019, I had the opportunity for small atonement to the animals I’ve harmed.