Although I didn't previously ask for permission to use this photo, you can go to Rev. Dr. Garbage Man's blog and give him the credit for it.
But here is MY story, from a few years back:
Aren't You Glad We Didn't Bury the Squirrel There? October 17, 2010
A few days ago, my children were out in the driveway after Daddy had
driven away to get us some Frosties from Wendy's. Low and behold a fat
squirrel lay in the driveway. It wasn't squashed or anything. It was
just. . . .there. My kids came rushing in: “Mom, there's an injured
squirrel in the driveway!” While their little hearts were gushing with
compassion, and undoubtedly their little brains were overflowing with
ideas about how they would play nursemaid to the ailing squirrel, I was
thinking, “Oh, great, it's not dead yet. That means we'll have to find
some “humane” way to put it out of its misery.” My mind quickly
recalled an unfortunate incident that happened when I was around 10
years old, where I witnessed an injured chipmunk being bashed over the
head with a shovel. Not a pleasant memory.
Obviously,
this was a man's job. So I herded the children inside and waited for my
husband to return. I dragged the trash dumpster into the driveway so
that he would stop before running over the squirrel, although in
retrospect, that would have solved the problem of having to put the
squirrel down.
He was not pleased to have to deal with
an overgrown rodent before enjoying his Frosty. He and I stood there
and pondered the squirrel for several minutes, trying to decide what to
do, and debating about whether the squirrel was alive or dead.
“Look, his little chest is moving.”
“No, he's not moving.”
“Yes, Get a mirror and put it in front of his mouth.”
“No, if he was alive, he'd be struggling to get away.”
“He's alive! He's just stunned.”
My
husband finally went and got the edger. The shovel was in the deep,
dark back yard and my husband did not want to go that far for a dying
squirrel. So he tried to pick it up with the edger and then he said,
“Let's just bury it over there,” motioning to the neighboring yard,
where there the house is being renovated by Habitat for Humanity, and it
just so happened that they had started digging up the yard that very
day. So, my hubby figured that they would never know the difference if
we buried a rodent carcass in the yard. However, knowing a bit about
landscaping myself, I pointed out that they may actually have to dig
deeper to plant things like trees, or to pour cement for a sidewalk. My
husband insisted that no one would notice.
Luckily,
our friend Brad happened along just at that time. Brad was out walking
his little dog, a shi tzu-yorkie mix, which by the way, is a little bit
of a humorous scene. Brad is a Man's Man. Brad is meat-and-potatoes man
who works hard at his job as an accountant a cowboy and comes home in his Suzuki Samurai
Dodge Ram truck and quaffs several MGD's without batting an eyelash.
(Also, Brad is not his real name. I told him I was going to write about
him and he suggested that I call him Brad. I think he wanted me to
draw some comparison between him and Brad Pitt, but I'm a humor writer,
not a fantasy writer.) So, it's just slightly amusing to see Brad
walking this little rhinestone-studded-collar-wearing fur ball.
Anyway,
I breathed a sigh of relief when Brad walked over and offered to help.
I figured I would leave the men to it and told my children not to watch
because I didn't know what they would actually do. However it got
taken care of, the squirrel was removed from our driveway and moved on
to a better place – I simply did not ask for details.
A
few days later, I noticed a lovely little evergreen shrub had been
planted in the neighboring yard. Yup! You guessed it - in the exact
place that my husband had suggested we bury the squirrel. So, I had
to take the opportunity to tell him that I was right. And that I hope
he didn't actually bury the squirrel there after I went into the house.
Because nothing says, “Welcome to the neighborhood” like a dead, rotting animal buried in the front yard.
