A deathnote

Dear Friends:

It is with sadness that I reflect on your passing in this letter. Whether you were in the street mourning your dead mother, or eating your fallen comrade for a midnight snack as adolescent raccoons may be known to do, I am not sure. The fact is, you were too small to move the body to the side of the road, and so, you were forced to place yourselves in danger.

I successfully avoided hitting you on my northbound trip, however my southbound trip put you at the invisible-til-the-last-moment side of a blind curve. Your ability to space yourselves exactly the same distance apart as the length of my car's wheel axel is impressive. You should work for Toyota. The mailbox and my side-mirror are fine, thanks for asking.

I am also compelled to apologize profusely for treating your bodies so irreverently. I did not have a shovel or stick with which to remove your bodies from the road, so I was compelled to kick you. It was my belief that the dishonor of being kicked was less than the dishonor of having your insides strewn all over the road. Had I a shovel, I would have given your mother's body the same treatment, however late in coming that action may have been.

I would also like to thank you for surrendering your lives so quickly. Lacking a shovel, I would have been forced to let you suffer had you not died immediately, or wrung your necks with my bare hands, which would not have been pleasant or safe for me.

I regret to inform you that you have died in vain. As it was not a clean kill, I am unable to use your meat in Uncle Jeb's Coon Soup recipe, nor do I possess the knowledge to adequately clean a fresh kill for human consumption. However, you may console yourselves that your death is approved by Darwin. As you are not yet old enough to reproduce, with a single screech of the tires, I have done my part in the efforts to remove the road-crossing gene from your genetic code.

Best wishes in your journey to that great garbage bin in the sky,
~Arwen