This morning an insanely courageous (but not so swift) squirrel did his own reenactment of the historic and inspiring scene from Tiananmen Square. He was the bold young dissident, I (or my minivan, rather), the tank. The inner defiance, I imagined to myself, may have been the same. The outcome, most definitely not. At least, he was not looking at all well when I last caught sight in my rear view mirrors. Squirrel vs. Dodge Grand Caravan rarely yields inspiring results. Ah, just a squirrel, I know. Still, the pathos is there. No one will memorialize this squirrel's noble (I imagined to myself) act with an iconic poster that will stand as a universal banner against all vehicular oppression of cute furry rodents.
I don't know what it is about Autumn that always seems to so escalate the highway roadkill tally. Do the animals all just get more frisky, more energetic, more desirous of making evocative political statements at their own peril? Is it that pre-winter bite in the air that incites sudden desperate acts of sheer animal lunacy? Is there some undercurrent of porpoise-esque communication and concord in the animal underworld indiscernible to mere mortals; some glorious laurels promised to that one wee beastie who will be the Evel Knievel to actually outrace man's automotive juggernaut?
Farewell, rebel squirrel. Should no one else remember, still I will remember.
P.S.: I deeply regret the squishing part of our chance encounter, and would surely have avoided that, if it were only possible.
