Oh, for the love of munkee!

I hit a small, furry animal on the highway going home the other night. Splat.

Second confirmed roadkill.


I hit a raccoon on a backroad in the summer of '95, when I was commuting to work for the then-Williamsport Cubs, a minor-league team in the New York-Penn League, for which I was a summer intern. (This game took place that year.)


I was accused of hitting a bunny rabbit in the summer of 2000, but I think a jury might have acquitted. There was blood on the road, and what might have been fur, but there was no body. If there's no body, you must acquit, right?

This thing ran out in front of me so fast, I have no idea what it was. It was too low-slung to be a dog or cat, too small to be a deer - thank goodness - and not the right shape to be a child - double-thank-goodness.


I'm guessing possum.

Marisa hit a curb on the highway yesterday, so there's a lot of that sort of thing going around. Fortunately, she, like I, is fine. As is, like mine, her car.

I've been up for about 20 straight hours. I'm about to faceplant on the laptop.

But I got most of the freelance work I had to get done, done.

On the other hand, I'm completely delirious.

And I wanted to share.


Just delirious enough to ponder: Do you think sadistic drivers paint little animal pictures on their driver-side doors, the way old-time fighter pilots used to paint little enemy flags or bombs or whatever to represent their kills?

Maybe I should claim the bunny after all.