Squirrel Thanatopsis

Yesterday in New York City, Carl and Sharon and I talked and laughed, and Carl told a story about a time a squirrel jumped onto his pant leg. I told about the time Tyler went to put the trash in the dumpster and a squirrel jumped out onto his arm, and clung there in terror as he tried to fling it off. We laughed some more.

But it reminded me of these dreams I've been having, apocalyptic-type dreams, all involving small animals. In the most recent one, several towns were putting on what amounted to an indoctrinatory political play, each town casting the parts with native citizens -- many of whom were somehow woodland creatures. I went to see another town's performance, two nights after my own town had performed it, and watched the rabbits and ducks and squirrels act out the plot under a broiling, dark sky. In my dream, I almost began to cry: Several of our cast members, ducks and squirrels, mostly, had died while we showed our version of the play, and the bitterness of the loss was still fresh.

Today, on the way to work, I saw a squirrel running across the road in front of me and didn't think much of it, until I noticed how slowly it was going. I slammed on the brake and my car screeched to a halt, leaving tire marks I could see on the road, two feet from the crossing animal. The squirrel dragged itself the rest of the way across, using its tiny front paws like a butterfly-swimmer, its back legs hanging uselessly behind it.

I continued down the road to pick up my girl, unsettled, and wondering: What happened to that squirrel? Was it a car? If it had been hit before, why did it seem to wait until I would almost certainly kill it before starting out across the road? What does that squirrel think about life, about its life? Does it remember what it was like, before?

It's only a matter of time for that squirrel. How can it even climb a tree?

So consider this my elegy -- premature, but sincere.