A HUNTER"S TROPHY

Awhile ago, the car I was driving struck and killed a squirrel. Sadly, the little rodent gave me no chance; he dashed under the front wheels before I had time to react, leading me to believe his death was mostly a suicide.

Yet still, I had slain a beast of the wild, and I felt a hunter's pride in my kill. A part of me wanted to display my defeated quarry, so I thought about having the squirrel's head mounted on the dashboard as a trophy. Or perhaps I could have had the beast's upper body displayed and have it look like it was bursting forth from the dashboard intent on doing harm. Yet it could do no harm, for I had stilled its malevolence.

Naturally, I wanted to do this because I figured that chicks would dig it.

But I worried that the flora and fauna of College Street might resent seeing their dead companion reduced to a trophy. Perhaps the carpenter bees might leave a message bored into the front porch: "BRING US THE HEAD OF POOR, DEAR SAMMY!" Or something like that. Perhaps the birds might be especially diligent about relieving themselves on my car.

In the end, it didn't matter. Somebody buried the squirrel, and so my triumph was lost forever.