I’ve had a long, sad history with squirrels, mostly of the squashing them with my car variety. In fact — if you don’t count the time one of my Savannah buddys trained a squirrel to sit on your shoulder and eat grapes, or the time I ripped a hole in my wall to save a baby squirrel that was trapped behind my fireplace (he later died) — it’s all of the squashing them with my car variety.
Yes, when it comes to me and squirrels, the story almost always ends poorly.
Yesterday morning, for instance. I’m driving Tillman to school and two squirrels dart out under the van. Despite the fact that I was going about five miles an hour, one of them manages to insert himself under the rear tire and I feel the familiar thunk that reminds me once again, I have just killed a squirrel, only this time I get to look into the rear view mirror and see him flipping and flopping in the road.
By the time I passed him again about ten minutes later he was good and dead, and I wondered if someone took pity on him and, uh, put him out of his misery, or if he lasted a full 9 minutes and 59 seconds before I got back to him.
That started a long day of bumbling frustration that ended around 9PM with me dropping my iPhone, which landed flat on the screen, dead as the proverbial doornail/squirrel.
As I’ve said before, this is probably the tenth squirrel I’ve run over in my life. If you take that as the average, then multiply by the number of drivers on the road, it’s a miracle there are any squirrels left. You’d think natural selection would have bred the suicidal instinct out of the squirrel population by now. But no…