I was recently driving back to work after having eaten lunch at my parent’s house. They live in the neighborhood where I work. It was a chilly afternoon and partly cloudy. Nothing was special or unique about this day. Just another day in the Detroit area. As I rolled down the block in my vintage 1988 Honda Civic Wagon, giving waves to admiring passerby, my eyes were drawn toward a moving object toward the opposite lane. I squinted and strained trying to see what it was. My brain whirled with activity processing what this shape could be, comparing it to the catalog of similar and familiar shapes filed away in chemical drawers. As my foot eased upward letting off the gas and the car subtly slowed, a rush of recognition flowed forth like a gasping breath. My brows furrowed downward pushing my eyes to partial squints. My upper lip curled and pulled back as my nostrils flared. This was the culmination of several emotions that when present, lead to an almost involuntary reaction. A reaction to something so unnatural, so sharply cutting to the psyche, so horrifying and unimaginable, the body has no choice but to violently mold to the contour of the involuntary recoil of the soul within.
There in front of my car, as I came to a gentle stop hardly perceivable to my inner ear, I was faced with ultimate mortality in all its heartless, cold, and grim cruelty. An image, a picture of a godless world. Survival of the strongest. No compassion, no security, no redemption was evident in this scene. The deadness and permanence of the long endless winter was upon me. Leafless old limbs seemed to bend over me and my car, threatening to break off and splinter like dry bones, a hale of mortuary winter disease. Even now as I recall it, the image is etched and burned into my mind as clear as the day. Two little paws, straining, grasping, clawing with slow determined patters. Patter… patter… patter… My heart wrenches in my chest, grabbed and torqued like the sudden loosening of a canning lid under a stagnant stalemate but now erupting, overpowering, and excessive force. Its so disturbing it physically hurts. I want to look away or keep driving but I have to watch. Patter… patter… patter… I wanted to take a gun and shoot its head off. No matter how gory or heinous, I would have gladly taken the shot without a nanosecond of thought. I would have rained down led mercies of burning powdery compassion. Patter… patter… patter… The two little delicate paws, life draining from them with every painful reach and pull, persisted with a soldiers discipline. Mortally damaged beyond hope. No vet, no specialist, nothing could help now. This squirrel just new it had to get to the grass. Get to the grass and die trying to climb a tree it could no longer climb. What was it thinking? How horrible and terrifying was this for the squirrel? No family or friends, no concerned loved one or dying partner to bestow last words to, nothing. Cold, dead, winter. Patter… patter… patter… If only I could have shot this squirrel and ended it. Ended this hopeless and merciless theatrical. The squirrel was so determined and focused, dragging its hind quarters across the cold hard cement like the tattered bottoms of jeans too long. Was it a look of terror on its face? Pain? Sorrow? Patter… patter… patter… such reverent strength the squirrel displayed. I could not stay to watch any longer. I had to get back to work and had no way to help, fix, or solve this epic struggle of nature before my and God’s eyes.
I had some difficulty focusing with my clients after this. The image was and is stuck in a state of pristine vividity. Like a ship wreck at the bottom of the arctic sea, halted from deterioration and appearance of age from the bitter freezing waters. There was little consolation for me that day, and infinitely less for the poor suffering squirrel. Horrendous it was, absolutely horrendous. A violation of creation and the perfection craving senses. As I drove away, I prayed for God to ensure a painless and quick death for the brown squirrel. I pleaded with God to fulfill this request until I reached my destination. The taste this day was bitter. I know nothing though. Could it be that this simple squirrel, of no consequence to the world and unknown to all but me that day and perhaps its entire life, was more in tune and connected to God than I? Was this squirrel in its final moments accompanied and in the presence of The loved One? Did this squirrel, inconsequential to humanity, have the vigilant, compassionate, and merciful eye of God on it the entire time? Its entire life? I must believe so, because that is my consolation. That must be the nature of God. His eye is on the squirrel. I mean, sparrow.
Raging Kitty