The Best Kept Secret Blog - Dead Rodents

There's a dead squirrel in my driveway. I don't quite know how it got there. It just kind of showed up there one day.


When it first appeared, my first thought was to call 911. But almost immediately I thought no, they won't see it as the same kind of emergency I do. It crossed my mind to call someone at the city but what with all the cut backs lately I was pretty sure they wouldn't be of much use. We barely get our garbage picked up, let alone dead squirrels. And even if they did have that kind of service, everyone knows what a horror it is trying to get through on those phone systems. I could just imagine it. "If you're calling about dead raccoons, please press 1. If you're calling about dead squirrels, please press 2."


I almost called my husband at work. I would have asked him to come home immediately but then I remembered he was away on business all week. Isn't that just like him to never be around when I really need him.

I know you're probably wondering why I just didn't pick the stupid thing up myself but I have a phobia of dead rodents. And live ones. And pictures of them. I was paralyzed.


With no other plan coming immediately to mind, all I could do was go about my day. I got in the car and left to get groceries. It wasn't until I got back and parked the car that I realized I had run over the squirrel. Twice.


The upside was that it was flatter and I hoped this would make the squirrel less noticeable. In fact, I could have forgotten all about it if I hadn't happened to notice our elderly neighbour out walking his poodle. My goodness, who would have thought that Muffy could tug on a leash so hard. Why I thought she'd pull Mr. Johnson right off her feet trying to get to that squirrel.


Hiding behind the curtains so Mr. Johnson wouldn't see me (I just hate when Mr. Johnson waves that cane around when he's mad) I knew I had to do something, but what?

I'm fully aware that a normal person would have just picked it up with a shovel and put it in the green bin for garbage pick up but I couldn't do that. Not only does my phobia prevent me from going near it but I couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like every time I took the trash out. It would just be laying there, staring at me.

As the week went on, it got easier and easier to run over the squirrel. Off to the PTA meeting? Vroom. . . the squirrel was flatter. Coming home from yoga class? Vroom . . . it would be practically invisible. But try as I might, the thing never disappeared, causing dog walkers and mothers of small children to start and jerk their young charges quickly away.

By Saturday, my husband was home and ready to deal with the problem. Strangely, I had grown an affinity to the squirrel. I had grown used to it in the same way one grows used to a soccer ball or sprinkler that gets left in the yard. It's part of the landscape and things just look off without it.