Thistle was back in the old dog run. He likes to crawl under the assorted large plastic items back there: the old pond liner, the smoker and plastic chairs, an inverted wheelbarrow. One piece of his little domain is a forty-gallon plastic trash can, minus a lid, around which he’s led the dog a few dozen times.
We’ve had a bit of rain this winter, as I think I mentioned. The trash can was about half full of water. Mindful of mosquito larvae in an age of West Nile virus, I pulled it over to the flower beds and dumped it.
Out with the rush of tannin and water came a fox squirrel. Dead only a couple days, eyes opaque and white, his fur was incongruously clean — freshly shampooed-looking.
The can was under our oak, and he may have fallen. Or perhaps he found himself on the rim on one of the hot days we had last week, thirsty and tempted by the water, and took a calculated risk. A splashing sound, repeated, and frantic scratching of claws on plastic for two minutes? Five? and then silence and the other squirrels stare uncomprehending from the oak.
The pickaxe was nearby. I dug a trench a foot deep beneath the oak and slid him in, spread soil over him, tamped it.
