Blood on My Hands

Early this morning I was awakened by gnawing over my head. The flying squirrel was at it again. I reached over and grabbed the stick I use to prop open the small hatch, and abruptly rapped hard on the ceiling three or four times.

I saw Ruby look out the window, and I smugly figured I scared the crap out of that squirrel and it had fled its place in the roof.

I contemplated getting up, but was still tired enough to roll over and grab another hour or so of sleep. Then I got up, fed the dog, and then took him out for his morning business.

Jingle, our indoor/outdoor cat, greeted us just outside the door, and I called Peko away. He stopped and started sniffing under my car and I saw a little body in a heap. Uh-oh. I called him away, and after he finished his business, I recovered the body.

I thought, here was my chance to get a picture of a flying squirrel, but to see the large glazed eyes covered in dirt, and the body still warm but quite dead, did not strike me as a nice photo opportunity.

She, for it was a female with long rows of nipples, did not have a mark on her, but to see her beautiful coat covered in dirt gave my imagination of her torturous death much fuel. I felt much grieved, like I had lost a small friend.

I wrapped her body in some newspaper and interred her without ceremony in the compost heap. Do I feel guilty? Yeah. :(