MAN DOWN

Like nearly every other day before, I arrived home for lunch just moments after 11:30 a.m. and unlocked the door. I stepped over the threshold and closed the door softly behind me. Turning, I took my first tentative stride up the steps when my eyes fell upon it.

A lone, plastic squeaker.

I reached out, picking it up gingerly, almost reverently, and gave it a test squeeze. A wheezy, half-hearted cough dribbled from the pin-hole mouth. My shocked and appalled stare fell on Guinness. He stared, cool, calm and collected, back at me.

Slowly I continued up the stairs knowing in my very core what I was about to find yet hoping beyond hope it wouldn't be true.

The carnage I found was horrid. Fluffy, white squirrel guts were strewn the breadth of the living room and into the hall, the torn and broken carcass left carelessly where it had fallen. I laughed in exasperation. Guinness casually sniffed his butt.

Goodbye, dear squirrel friend. Depart knowing you lasted longer than puppy and probably hour-per-hour matched ducky. Goodbye that $6 I spent that would have been used just as effectively had I put it in Guinness' mouth directly. At least now I won't have to smell your bad dog-breath scented body or feel the brush of your slobber drenched faux fur. Nor will I ever again be awaken at THREE THIRTY IN THE EFFING MORNING BECAUSE, OH HI, MOM! YOU WERE GONE ALL EVENING AND I DIDN'T WANT YOU TO MISS ANY IMPORTANT PLAY TIME! YOU'RE AWAKE(ISH) NOW?! LOVEMELOVEMELOVEMEPETMEBITE! BITE BITE! WHAT? YOU DON'T LIKE BITE? HOW ABOUT IF I DO IT LIKE THIS? NO? HOW ABOUT HARDER?!

Little shit.