Squirrely

We saw him lying there in the snow. Stiff.  Cold. Dead.  How did it happen?  Was he out past curfew last night?  Did he look both ways before crossing?  Perhaps he was from California and not used to the cold.  However it happened, it happened.  Death is part of life.  The poor squirrel lay there in a pile of snow as if he was tired and decided to rest for a bit and never woke up. 

The boys in the neighborhood were very interested in the poor little guy and doorbells were ringing to share the news and to usher everyone out to gawk at the furry ice cube. When you have a neighborhood of boys 11-14 years old, a dead squirrel is pretty cool.  They checked him out from a distance. They wondered how he died.  They all wanted to see if he was “whole” but no one dared to touch him. (Thank God!)

After several minutes of pondering what to do, the decision was made to move the poor soul to the backyard for burial.  The shovel was picked up from the garage and my oldest was elected gravedigger.  They prodded him with the shovel and pushed him onto the cold metal and carried him to the backyard.  My son began to dig and once deep enough, he was laid to rest. (OK, they kind of kicked him in and used the shovel to push him the rest of the way into the hole.  Not quite as solemn as you’d hope.)

On their own, they all said something nice about him.

“He used to eat the apples off our tree.”

“He was a great squirrel.”

“He had pretty brown fur.”

“Let’s name him, Squirrely."

The burial was over, but the funeral wasn’t complete without a headstone.  My youngest pounded on the patio door and asked for a marker to write his name on the tree bark and stick they found for the headstone.  It reads, “In memory of Squirrely.”

I can only hope that Squirrely's parents or children can rest easy this evening as they stroll past the makeshift cemetery which now resides in our backyard.  He was loved (at least for 15 minutes) and in the end, his memory will go on forever with our children.  Rest in peace, Squirrely.