Notes on Mortality, Squirrels

Today, when I went to throw out a lollipop wrapper, I was reminded of the day I saw the squirrel chittering peacefully in a pool of blood.O, the Princeton squirrel.I was walking outside Edwards Hall. It was fall, so the tree’s leaves had flared deep red. And the squirrel was sitting in its shade, and the sun filtered through and cast this unmistakable, soft bloody glow over it all, over this carpet of fallen leaves, so as I walked by (and this impression may have been enhanced by some degree of sleeplessness) it looked like a squirrel was sitting smugly in the midst of violence– maybe nursing a fresh kill, maybe gnawing at the remains of an errant freshman. An illusion, a trick of the sunlight, but it stuck with me.So this morning, when I noticed a squirrel was perched on the trash can like some crazy-eyed, bushy-tailed sentinel, I paused and put the wrapper back in my pocket. There would be more trash cans ahead; I’ll pick my battles.