Maybe, little Braveheart, we had met before that fateful evening. As you know, our neighborhood is popular with the squirrel set due to the stellar transportation network of tall trees and utility wires. A few weeks ago, we stepped onto our partially-enclosed front porch and inadvertently cornered a squirrel, who proceeded to scamper up a brick wall, crash into the ceiling, and fall spectactularly to the ground. It immediately climbed to the ceiling again, quaking visibly. “That squirrel is nuts,” I told Mr. Pinault.
Was that you, Braveheart? Or was our first and last meeting destined to be shortly after Mr. Pinault arrived home from work and told me of an injured squirrel lying in the driveway. I believe his exact words were, “Do you know what to do about sick squirrels?”
We went down to the driveway and saw you, pulling yourself aimlessly along the concrete with your front paws. Upon closer inspection, it appeared your hind legs had been crushed; they dragged uselessly alongside your bushy tail. Your entire torso shook with the labors of your heart. Aside from your flattened hindquarters, you were quite a comely squirrel.
And you were in our driveway. We felt responsible for you. In retrospect, we should have called a veterniary hospital instead of trying to comfort you ourselves. We went upstairs to our kitchen, shelled some peanuts, and poured water into a little plastic bowl that I fashioned from a Poland Spring bottle. It’s not that you weren’t good enough to drink from our ramekins, it’s just I worried about, you know, inter-species germ transmission.
Back on the driveway, we placed the refreshments about four inches in front of you, but you stared dumbly at us. We pushed the peanuts closer and you grasped one with both hands, though you didn’t eat it. We poured the water onto the concrete and it pooled and doused your little body. Oops.
You had no way of knowing this, Braveheart, but you were laying in our neighbor’s parking spot. We feared that she may come home and turn you into a dead mess on the driveway. So, we decided to move you. We thought you may be more comfortable on the grass. I know I would be.
Mr. Pinault donned his gardening gloves and approached you with grasping hands, but even in your weakened state, you made it clear through hissing grunts that you would not tolerate being picked up. So we decided to find another way to transport you to the lawn. Pushing your body into the garbage can with a broom, well, that was Mr. Pinault’s idea. I can understand why you resisted.
The snowshovel was my idea. Mr. Pinault prompted you into the shovel with the broom, and I carried you over to the front lawn, where I deposited you gently into the green grass. You then died. I mean, shit. Your little eyes were open and you stretched out in your final throes of cardiac failure.
We feel responsible, of course, but what should have we done? Left you in the driveway? Sought medical attention? We thought moving you to the grass was a humane gesture. Instead, we killed you. But we will never forget how hard you resisted us. We will never forget how you fought against being pushed into the garbage can with a broom. We christen thee Braveheart, for your enemies may have taken your life, but they never took your freedom, except when we pushed you in the snowshovel.
