Please don't tell PETA about this

My neighborhood has many large, mature trees, which naturally makes it a squirrel mecca. I've made cracks about the squirrels before--commented that they very likely outnumber the humans and would quite possibly take over if they could just get organized... complained that they eat all the birdseed in the feeder before the birds can ever get to it (which is why I haven't bothered to refill my bird feeder in over a year)... commiserated with my friend Lisa when she had to cough up a large sum of money on a car repair because one of the furry little bastards chewed through her brake line... No, despite their occasional entertainment value, I can't say I'm a real big fan of the squirrels. They are, as Carrie Bradshaw once said, just "rats in cuter outfits."

That said, however, I really mean them no ill will. When they dart out in front of my car (as they frequently do), I always brake. Even when I'm late for work and in a hurry, I don't whip through the streets like Cruella DeVille, a flurry of birds and ground critters exploding in every direction in front of me. I always brake. And I always check my rearview mirror to see them scurry away out the other side, probably a bit shaky, their little squirrel lives having just flashed in front of them, but feeling exhilarated and alive enough to proceed with their nut gathering and bird feeder ransacking and whatever else the little menaces do all day.

I fear that the little guy who ran across my path yesterday, however, did not fair so well. As I accelerated up a hill a few blocks from home, I saw him run out into the street, and I immediately braked to let him execute a quick escape, but when I checked my mirrors as I proceeded, I didn't see him. I felt an instant surge of fear and guilt at the prospect that I'd actually killed something larger than a spider or a june bug, but I still hoped he'd just made a low-profile getaway and was already catching his breath on the curb. I continued on and--I'll admit it--promptly forgot about the squirrel.

I forgot about him until this morning, when I made my way back down that same hill on a return trip from some errands. I suddenly noticed, beside a parked car near my lane, a stiff and still squirrel laying on his back, arms unnaturally frozen in "stick 'em up" position, as though he just stopped in his tracks and fell right over. He was relatively fresh road kill, and I am almost entirely certain that I am to blame.

What's the protocol in that situation? Was I supposed to go back there, scoop him into an empty shoebox, and bury him in my yard? Should I at least have pulled over and moved him to the side of the road, so his poor little squirrel corpse wouldn't be flattened any further?

I left him there, of course, but I still feel a bit guilty about it. I also fear that his friends and family members know what I did, because three of them were mysteriously staked out just beyond my porch steps when I returned home, and another was leering at me from a nearby tree branch as I warily hurried under it towards my house.

I'm sure there are much greater animal lovers than I, who actually would be incapacitated by guilt in this sort of situation and surely would have returned to the scene to make sure the victim had a proper resting place. I take comfort in knowing there is a viewpoint on the other end of the spectrum, however, which I have not yet reached. My sister is, apparently, of that viewpoint. When I spilled my confession of "I think I killed a squirrel!" she paused for only a moment before asking two questions: "When? And... who cares?"

So, there's one less squirrel in the neighborhood, and I'm very likely responsible. If you're an animal lover and this disturbs you highly, I do apologize. If you're like my sister, however, who just sprayed PAM on the post that holds her bird feeder in an effort to keep the bushy-tailed critters away, you're welcome.