An ode to power line squirrel

Death fell upon the suburban ghetto early Tuesday morning when an ill-fated shortcut from tree to house resulted in a resoundingly violent and epic end for a tiny neighborhood squirrel.

As I lay in bed, around 5 a.m., struggling to remain asleep because of intense humidity and an unnecessarily loud $30 air conditioner, I closed my eyes and began to fade in to a state of lucidity when an explosion brighter than anything I had ever seen occurred directly in front of my face. The flash was so bright that it proved the natural cover of my eyelids to be futile. It was blinding- and I already had my eyes closed. The explosion was supersonic in nature, shaking the windows and nearly ejecting my heart through my throat. I jolted awake convinced that my rattling, buzzing, shaking air conditioner had exploded inches from my face. No doubt searing off all of my skin and (gasp) destroying my beloved beard. It only took a split second to realize that nothing was on fire and I was not destined to look like Seal, but in my half-asleep confused state it felt like a decade. In the end some loud commotion among startled neighbors and an eventual visit from the fire department concluded that the earlier mentioned squirrel had taken a wrong step- a fatally wrong step -and managed to funnel about 5,000 volts of electricity through its tiny, furry frame. The explosion did not destroy the squirrel, it simply cooked the poor little guy's frame until he looked like something the fat guy from Bizarre Foods would eat off of a stick on some remote South American island. Within an hour National Grid was on the scene and order was restored.

Although his lack of electrical judgment resulted in me nearly puking and crapping myself at the exact same time, I feel like Power Line Squirrel should be remembered as more than a toasted, fly-covered corpse laying at the end of my neighbor's driveway (still). So, without further ado, here is my final send off for the Power Line Squirrel.

Dear Mr. Squirrel. Or is it Mrs. Squirrel? I suppose we will never know (since your genitalia has no doubt been scorched beyond recognition).,

Despite the fact that your poor animal instincts scared me nearly to death and quite possibly accelerated the heart attack that I will inevitably someday have, I can't help but feel sorry for you. I'm sure you woke up this morning, scratched your ass, checked out your acorn collection ans kissed your family goodbye, not knowing for a second that it would be the last time you'd ever see them. As you ventured out, pre-dawn, in search of some food, nesting materials and maybe a young, horny Squirrlette to sink your tiny teeth in to, your mood was bright. Your demeanor was strong. This, my friend, proved to be your fatal mistake. Cockiness. Crossing those power lines- lines that you had crossed a million times before- you had your eyes on the prize. A plush-looking tree, maybe a stale piece of bread still blowing around from garbage day. Your good at this squirrel thing. Go and get it. That is where it all came to an end. One misstep, one short jump and BANG! the entire neighborhood is in the dark- and you, YOU Mr. or Mrs. Squirrel are floating toward the white light. Did you feel any pain? Did you see your life flash before your eyes?

In a way I feel selfish. All I cared about was not having to replace everything in my fridge, but there you were. There you were, eyes burned out of your skull, half smiling. Meanwhile the other squirrels at the camp had no idea. By now the word has spread. So it goes.

Sleep well tonight Power Line Squirrel. Sleep well. I know you will. It's raining.