Sometimes I Don't Have A Funny Story

I almost ran over a squirrel last week. And I wasn't trying to run over a defenseless animal (because those dark days are finally behind me). But he didn't do anything to get out of the way. He was lying on his stomach in the middle of the road and I thought he'd already been run over. He didn't budge for the quarter mile it took me to get to him. And I avoided him by a few inches. Then I looked in my mirror and he was gone. Not gone like I was at the wrong angle to see him. I mean gone like the section of the road where he was laying was suddenly empty.

And it freaked me out more than it should have. Because I couldn't figure out why he would do that. I thought maybe he was injured and couldn't move very well, but he had to have darted off the road pretty quick for me not to see him. And since logic doesn't sound like much fun today, I'm thinking the explanation is one of three things.

Option one is that he was suicidal. He had recently lost his girlfriend or found out about a tragically ironic nut allergy. So he decided that life wasn't worth the living. And then when the one chance he had drove right past him, he chose a busier street and jetted off to make it happen. But that sounds pretty far-fetched.

Option two is that he was playing Extreme Rodent Truth-Or-Dare and his dare was to play chicken with a minivan Corvette. And if this is the case, I'm impressed. Because that's gutsy. And frankly, the awesomest thing I've ever imagined.

Option three is that he was waiting for a vehicle to stow away on. And then as I passed, he grabbed onto my running board with his tiny ninja squirrel paws and tucked himself away under my car. Which means I have a freakishly strong, totally fearless, extremely patient squirrel in my garage. Or maybe in my house. Which is both awesome and terrifying.