I stared out the kitchen window,
thought, “Still breathing or not?”
It was hard to tell; we were connected
through the hearts.

I carried my cup of tea with me,
made my way quietly to where he lay,
and I watched for signs of life.
He’d been clawed open
from abdomen to throat –-
my favorite squirrel.

The day before he’d taken nuts from my hand,
condoned the convivial scratch behind the ear
though he’d never admit he liked it.

I placed him in a cardboard box;
drove all the way to the vet only to learn
wild rodents cannot be rescued.
Wept without shame when they said
it was for the best.

Every morning now I check you
from abdomen to throat
and I watch for signs of life.

Your mutilation is on the inside.
I have no cardboard box large enough
to hold you, no one to tell me
it’s for the best when I get there.
My mistake was naming you both
and letting you eat from the palms of my hands.