I was driving just as fast as the navy blue explorer in front of me when I saw the groundhog dash between its tires. I gasped and hit my brakes. He never even tapped his. The groundhog disappeared for a fraction of a second and in the same moment she reappeared on the other side of the navy blue explorer. She was rolling onto her back. I imagined her completing her roll into a full upright position, planting her feet onto the pavement like a gold medal winning gymnast. Instead, she laid there motionless on her side like an overweight pot-belly pig. I drove over her being sure to position the tires of my green Honda on either side of her flesh.
I thought about how much easier it would have been to see a squirrel in the same predicament. They multiply like rabbits. It wouldn't have been so sad. And then I thought about the rabbit I killed with my bare hands in Georgia. I thought about how it had taken Paul Feather all day long to teach me how to properly and sacredly kill, skin, and cook a rabbit. I remembered talking to the rabbit as I held him in my lap and took his neck between my hands. "It's alright, buddy" I cooed to him. I could feel his heart beating through his thin rabbit skin and thick rabbit fur. I had so much respect for him and so much power over him. It scared me. And I twisted and skinned and cleaned with all my might. We feasted thankfully for two days on his flesh and bones.
I picked up my speed again, having talked myself out of a groundhog memorial on the side of East Marion Street. And as I locked eyes with the dark haired driver in the approaching traffic I hoped to see a look of horror, but saw only indifference. I wondered what groundhog tastes like.
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