in which witness is borne: birds, politics, fiction and critical art theory

Death Comes for the Gray Squirrel

Thursday, March 24, 2005
i couldn't even write about this yesterday, it opened up too many raw areas of my psyche. i was hobbling home from the bus stop at WEstern & Fullerton, heading south on Campbell. it was (and is) fairly painful to walk with this stomach ailment i've acquired, so that each step feels like i'm being socked in the gut. so i took a rest.
and noticed a sound. a high, scratchy, croakingly hoarse squeal of misery. Rhythmic. Like, "HLEEAAAAAAAAAAGHHHH, HLEEAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHH". i looked up. Didn't see anything at first, just a tree, with, thankfully, tiny buds beginning to appear. Then I saw it: a dead branch. On that branch, tucked into crouch position like it was about to run, a squirrel. Dead as a doornail. Looked like it had been there for a couple days. As if it was struck down mid-scamper. The sound was coming from the next branch up, where a smaller squirrel was crouched in the same position, grieving unmistakably for all the world to hear.
2:35 PM :: ::
  • whoa! poor little guys! we should've called the fire department........you know, like they do for cats. i mean what makes a cat so much cooler than a squirrel.......squirrels need love too.

    By Blogger shellie, at 8:19 PM  
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