I was just driving along and the poor bastard came loping along at an improbable pace - right in front of the car and was hit by the passenger-side front tire... (no carnage noted in quick inspection of the undercarriage)... He looked like a mink or a sable only much bigger (maybe a marten?) and much more dead. With not quite enough fur on him to make a stoll for a future ex or enough meat for more than an appetizer portion of Rotisseried Marmot - Hey! Living in the Hamster would bring out the pragmatist/survivalist in you, too!



I felt so guilty (years of wildlife rehab. voluteerism and repentance for a family of former big game hunters will do that to ya'), I had to turn around and make sure he was good enough dead - he was, alas <sigh>... which is probably better as didn't want to have to run the poor bastard over again or anything... :-( That or your supposed to twist their little necks so they don't have to suffer - can you imagine how much bourbon it would take to undo that episode? Marmot as symbol of my lost youth?

Accckkk!!!