I took a brief nap the other day. I despertaly needed some rest and with it came a dream. A nightmare.
A squirrel laid on its back, gasping for air. Its last sounds a cross between crying and screeching; wheezing and screaming; dying and pleading.
Its typical chuckling sound was replaced by something other. Colder. Direr.
Its arms seemed elongated, almost grasping and clawing at its furry chest. The bushy tail obscured its legs. A tangle of fur and imagined bone.
Did I kill it? Was it hurt before I saw that image? Perhaps it fell from the tallest of trees, miscalculating a leap, or it slipped from a wire on a nearby telephone pole.
Blood was caked amid its short hairy belly. A sliver of light reflected as a pinpoint globe of pure white dotted the corners of its black eyes.
Was I supposed to kill it? Relieve it of its misery?
In an ultimate act of ignorance, I simply woke up. It still haunts me.
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2 comments:
Have you cleaned your squirrel hair brush properly? Really bad when the paint gets into the ferral. Sometimes you can't get it out. Or maybe you want to cut some of the squirrel's hair off to make a nice brush with, hmm.
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