This one was still intact. No innards splashed out or bloody tire tracks on the asphalt. Lying on its side, with its legs stiff and the bushy tail forming a perfect curve, the squirrel could have been some kid’s cute stuffed animal, except for the small puddle of blood oozing from its open mouth.

I got off my bike, pulled on my rubber gloves, and took the trowel from my backpack. It was quiet on 8 Mile Road. No one would see me. The two horses, grazing in the pasture behind me, paid no attention to what I was doing. The soil by the side of the road was moist, easy to dig. I nudged the squirrel with my index finger onto the trowel. When its head rolled back, more blood trickled onto the pavement. My stomach cramped. I hated the blood.

There was no smell of death on this one yet so I didn’t need to hold my breath as I placed the squirrel in the ground and covered it with dirt. Then I inhaled, waiting for that moment when having done this made me feel better.

But that moment didn’t come.

I jumped back onto my bike and rode on as fast as I could, not letting up until my lungs burned. I’d never counted how many animals I’d buried since Dad died. I didn’t make a list or anything. I wasn’t that crazy.