I cruised by the site of this morning’s Squirrel Squishing on my way to play poker tonight. There’s no sign of the little guy, not even a greasy spot. Not (pardon the pun) hide nor hair of him.

Now I’ll always wonder: Did someone scrape him up? Did a crow make off with his remains? Or did I not kill him after all? Maybe he was just stunned and shook it off and went back home for a nap.

I like that idea, I think I’ll stick with it. I’ll picture him growing old and scaring his grandkids with stories about “the time a motorcycle came thisclose to running me down.”