The first time I drove over you, I felt sad. By the time I came to the next intersection, I had started to feel slightly sick. But by the time I reached the bottom of the hill, I had already forgotten about you. Its funny how fast human beings forget things when they are in a hurry.

The next day was hot and I was glad that the car windows were  rolled up as I passed over you. My passing probably was as quick as the original hit that took your life, if not quicker. I can only hope that the owner of that car at least felt the bump you made and had a sudden twinge of guilt hit their stomach for a minute or two about taking a little four legged creature from its family and the nest it would have tried to invade the next day.

On the third day, I tried to avoid looking at you, but there’s something about roadkill and accidents on the road that draws your eye, even though your brain tries to resist it. You no longer look like a squirrel, but rather like spilled yellow take-out food.

On the fourth day, I pointed you out to a friend. We were in the other lane, so we couldn’t see you clearly, but I could have sworn that only half of you were there. I wondered if you were just being grounded into a smaller pulp or if half of your tiny body was caught up in a car’s underside.

I actually looked for you on the fifth day. But you were gone. All was left was a black smear on the pavement. It looked like an oil spill.

Its too bad that I didn’t get to see you while you were living, but I wouldn’t have been able to pick you out from all the other squirrels. Instead I got to see you in your smelly, squashed, dead glory.

Unfortunately I can’t say that you have changed my life for better or for worse, but I am sorry for you. I am sorry for the wife and children that I have imagined for you. I am sorry that you weren’t administered your last squirrel rites or had a proper squirrel funeral.

I will say this: RIP squirrel who died in the middle of the road. May squirrel heaven be filled with nuts.