Was It Murder?

The newly fallen Christmas Day snow made undetected travel impossible. Follow the trail!

The previous day, when the woodland floor appeared as if November had overstayed her welcome with the browns and grays of fallen leaves, neatly stacked piles of severed tree limbs and rotting logs, and bare branches in full winter retrenchment, they made their appearance. The aged shades of an autumn long passed, muted by the gloom of the lowering and thickening clouds of December, provided near perfect cover for the trot along the tree line, at first tentative, wary and alert but eventually inquisitive and finally restive. He actually lay down in the brittle oak leaves, appearing to be just another neighborhood dog, except for the sharply pointed ears, fully extended and frequently shifting from side to side, filtering the sounds of suburbia.

After the brief respite, he stood, stretched his legs and continued along the tree line to the clump of trees and underbrush, mounds of lawn clippings and old, abandoned fence posts embedded with rusted wire that marked the four corners of the adjoining, adjacent properties. Somewhere beneath the detritus of the woodland floor lies a city sanctioned property marker but it didn’t matter. The sights, sounds and smells of the woods were of utmost importance to him. To our surprise, the second one moved in along the same tree line, with similar tentativeness. Stop, look, listen, smell. Trot along. Repeat. An intentional pair we thought; no territorial squabbles or aggressive posturing. They meandered northeast, along the ancient wire fence that ran perpendicular to the tree line, and into the next yard, noses to the ground one second, heads raised with ears at full attention the next. Gone.

We greeted Christmas Day with strong coffee while lounging about the living room, shaking off sleep and taking in the sights of the newly minted winter wonderland just outside the front door. The snow fell fast and heavy, the hot coffee feeling like a loyal guardian against the frosty replacement for yesterday’s autumn tableau.

Gifts were exchanged and opened, another pot of freshly ground, hot coffee eagerly consumed. My wife headed to the shower while I cleaned up the breakfast dishes.

“I saw him walking through the backyard,” she exclaimed with a glint of glee in her eye and a voice that projected triumph, or maybe vengeance; retribution? “He had a fat ball of grey in his mouth!” Fat ball of grey, a tail and a thick coat of fur; a squirrel. The squirrel? The one that chased away the birds from our hanging feeder, violating our deck with urine and feces? That squirrel?

By mid-morning the steady snowfall had tapered off to intermittent flurries, so clean up began. Fire up the snow machine to clear the driveway, shovel off the walkways, rake the roof above the gutters to avoid costly and very inconvenient ice dams, clean up the deck. The deck, the feeder … the squirrel!

The freshly fallen, nearly undisturbed snow made undetected travel impossible. I followed the trail. Small foot prints. Larger prints, wider gait. I traced the impressions in the snow, so orderly and direct I immediately thought of railroad tracks, efficient and effective, economical. The trail of precise foot prints led me deeper and deeper into the woods before ending in a chaotic disturbance in the snow. Blood. Drops of blood, streaks of blood, swishes of blood, a small arc of blood.

The fox got that squirrel. Was it murder?