gu.e: what's left out

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I never swerve to hit animals. They run out in front of me.

On my way to have breakfast with friends before school, I tagged a doe. I’d even slowed down when two other deer ran across the road. I looked both ways and let my foot off the brake, then wham! She came from the thick brush on the right just after the bend at the Inns of Granny White. She flew straight up in the air and landed in a pile in the middle of the road. Popping up as though nothing had happened, she ran down the embankment to my left and disappeared through the trees.

Excuse me? Did that just happen?

Squirrels are insane. IN-sane.

They run across the street then turn at look at you. They hunker down then fake-out—fake-out—fake-out—they shift back and forth, unable to choose an escape route. Ba-boomp: Squirrel Crepe. Why are they so indecisive? I’m in my car screaming, “Move, you idiot! I’m in a Honda Accord. You’ve got no chance of survival!” They just feint this way and that then bite the big one. What a waste. Even when I’ve swerved to one side, they run straight into my tires!

Gosh, I mean, what else can I do? These rodents have a death wish, and they’ll give it up about as soon as they’d draw you a map to the nut stockpile. I don’t understand it. The squirrel in Bambi seemed happy enough. All the squirrels in Nashville have father wounds.

I’m coming home from David Lipscomb High School one afternoon. It’s early October. A squirrel darts out into the road, and I think, “Here we go again, you freaks!” Sure enough, Squirrel Crepe.

But this unfortunate rodent wasn’t destined for the potter’s field. No, no. Wham! One of the better brainstorms of my career struck me.

I finished the drive home where I pulled together the necessary materials.

I went back, scooped the squirrel up, mummified him in plastic wrap, and put him in a shoe box. Next, I wrapped the shoebox like a birthday present. Next, I wrote a card and addressed it to Elizabeth.

My older sister’s birthday was a few days later, and I’d overheard my dad saying he was planning to drop off a card at Lipscomb University, which is fifteen minutes from my parents’ house, and send it to her through campus mail. If he was taking the card anyway, why couldn’t he deliver her special birthday surprise? Everybody love Squirrel Crepe!

Once my birthday present was finished, I found my dad and explained: “Hey Dad, I got Elizabeth an early birthday present. Do you mind dropping it off with the card?”

He agreed and commended me for my generosity and thoughtfulness.

On the following day, with my father acting as the courier, a squirrel run over by a car was sent through Lipscomb’s campus mail system. I think that has to be a first, but I hope it’s not a last. To send something through campus mail, you drop it off at the desk where a student receiving minimum wage takes it. The student fills out a card and puts it in the recipient’s mailbox.

As I found out later, Elizabeth checked her mailbox, and Happy Day! a card and package voucher were waiting for her. She claimed her prize and took it up to her room in Elam dorm. She read my card, thought, “Bud, how sweet!” and tore off the paper. She didn’t stop there. She saw brown through the plastic and thought, “Mmm, brownies…” and unwrapped the tasty treat.

Oopsy! Squirrel Crepe instead.

She screamed. Turns out, not everyone love Squirrel Crepe. In fact, I don’t know a single person who loves Squirrel Crepe.

What was I thinking?

Long story short, Elizabeth fetched our cousin Jenny who carried the crepe by the tail to the science building and threw it in a trash can.

Moral of the story: Recycle.