This morning, while leaving our neighborhood, a squirrel was hit. Burned into my mind is the horrific image of the nameless squirrel twisting in pain. Shaking. Seizing. Kicking its little legs. It was probably squealing at an indeciperable pitch, but I could not hear the shreks because the windows were closed. There was another squirrel, on the sidewalk, about to run out toward the road in a fretful, adrenaline rushed panic, but stopped short because we were driving by. I looked in my rearview mirror, mere seconds after we passed the scene of the accident. Again, I see the squirrel writhing in pain. Then I notice the other squirrel pan into view, rushing out like a WWII medic. It knew his only job was to comfort the dying squirrel in its last moments. There was no hope for the squirrel lying on the road. Death was upon him. It would not be long before his restless limbs would soon go limp. But the sadness was real! As the melodrama unfolded before my eyes, I closed off any emotion so that I could continue to drive. In an attempt to free myself from such a horrific blur of events, I stared out into the distance, gazing melancholically at the rising sun, which was spreading its warm rays over the horizon. I blamed myself for not hitting the nameless squirrel again, simply to end his pain faster. But there was no turning back. It was too late. And for that, I am distraught.