Trip Interlude: Squirrels are suicidal

What is it about these little creeps?

I was speeding (yes, speeding -- and I have the ticket to prove it) out of the Owens Valley into Death Valley. There wasn't a single car there other than me. And then waaaaaay up ahead, I saw the little speck dart to the middle of the road. So I took my foot off the gas. I gripped the wheel. I was closing in fast, and I didn't know how this was going to work out.

If I hit it, I'd turn it into a smear. If I swerved, I'd run the risk of going off the road.

So I began cursing at it.

"Get OFF the ROAD you lousy little son of a BITCH. Get OFF. DON'T make me KILL you, YOU STUPID STUPID MOTHERCOCKSUCKING BASTARD."

Like that would work.

And then it skittered back to the very center of my lane.

Very carefully, I aligned the car. Fine. If the damn thing had a death wish, I was going to help out as little as possible (you thought I was going to try to smush it, didn't you?). Instead, I set up to straddle the little beast. At 60 miles an hour. He stayed perfectly still and beadily watched me bear down on him. I held my breath, white-knuckled the steering wheel and whoosh! I was over and past him.

And when I looked into my rearview mirror, I saw his fuzzy gray body airborne and rolling like a frickin' stock car that got bumped and lost it in the turn. The tail whipped like one of those jaunty corkscrew windsocks.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. After all, I didn't know if I'd saved him, killed him, or -- now that I think about it this is worst of all -- maimed him and left him to die in the road.

Best intentions gone astray, I believe. But it was him or me. And I had the car.

Poor little shit.