Squirrels

Gray viscous intestines spring from the cavity I've just inadvertently opened.
Shoot. This is not going as planned.

The smell is familiar and foul. It triggers a flow of olfactory memories from my childhood: cigarette smoke mixed with wet dog and cracked old vinyl from the station wagon my dad would take to El Centro to hunt birds. The sweetly mechanical smell of gun oil he'd wipe onto each rifle and shotgun with a soft blue cloth. The stench of a dozen slowly decomposing quail sitting in the kitchen sink- the smell of guts and dusty feathers.

I keep peeling. I cut through the fascia with a paring knife but the pace is slow.
That's what happens when you try to skin a squirrel several hours after you've shot it in the head. The rigor mortis has set in, the little paws clasped in a prayer position.
The skin doesn't slide off the body as it does in the youtube video. In that video a guy with a southern accent and a wedding ring on his pale finger uses a scalpel to denude his squirrel. I have none of those things and the squirrel now looks like he's wearing ill fitting fur pants and a fluffy loose halter top. His bare midriff is skinny and pink and now tearing.
I resign myself to the fact that I will not have a full squirrel pelt to remind me of the first time I intentionally killed an animal.
I resign myself to the fact that this will not be dinner as I cannot get the fur off the hind legs. OK, so I don't try as hard as I could because I'm a little unclear on how long an animal can sit in a warm car before the meat goes bad.
I resign myself to the fact that although I had less of a reaction shooting it than I thought I would (it was sort of disturbingly easy), the cleaning and cooking part was making me a touch queasy. And that surprised me. It wasn't like gutting a fish or cutting up a chicken carcass. I can do that.
Maybe it was the smell of the bulging guts or having to pull off the dirty fur.
Maybe it was the fact that I saw this little guy squirming around in a cage just hours before. Maybe it is because I am another living thing and I just took that living away from something else.
Maybe I should be disturbed, queasy, uncomfortable with my discomfort.

If I am going to eat meat, I should be able to kill it, prepare it, cook it myself.

That is exactly why I took the gun from the other farmer and approached the "live" cage trap (ironic). We are shooting squirrels because they are eating our vegetables. They outnumber the chickens and goats. They are now a "pest." This is what happens on a farm.
"Thank you for being a squirrel," I said just before the pellet let fly.
I felt guilty as we started digging a little grave for the bodies. They'll go back into the earth and nourish it for sure, but...

Repeat: If I am going to eat meat, I should be able to kill it, prepare it, cook it myself.

That is why I stuck the warm body in a plastic bag and placed it in the backseat of my truck. That is why I skinned it in my kitchen sink. That is why I stood peering into the open body cavity of this animal fascinated by the deep maroon liver and bright pink lungs, the stomach full of grain (bait) and stringy intestines. That is why I cut off a little chunk of the meat and placed it in a cup to cook later when the slight stench dissipated. (I figured if the meat was bad a little bite would only bring on a small bout of food poisoning. Poor reasoning? Yes. Worth it? Morally, yes.) But even with the body wrapped in several bags and placed in the trash (sorry for the unceremonious burial Squirrel), I could still smell him. I couldn't eat anything; my mashed pumpkin with bits of veggies made me gag as I could still see squirrel guts in my head and each crunch and squish between my teeth reminded me of him.
I realized I had to cook what I had left of him. Immediately.
A little olive oil, a little pepper on magenta flesh sizzling in the pan. As soon as the meat browned and curled it looked less like the little squirrel body I just discarded.
I took a nibble of the tiny steak. The taste was not pleasant. Maybe it was the lingering smell of intestines or maybe the gaminess of the meat or just my mind revolting.
Huh. Good to know.

I wiped the counter of fur and little pieces of flesh. I took a shower and scrubbed my hands. I went out for a couple of cocktails with friends and we ended up at Nunu's Lounge for a late night bite.

I had a hamburger. It was delicious. It went down just fine. It came between two pieces of bread with a sprinkling of lettuce and a gob of mayo. The smell of squirrel was no longer under my fingernails.
Did I make the connection that this slab of ground material in a bun was a cow within the last year? No, it's just a hamburger.

Time to work my way up because that disconnect is not OK.

Chicken, goat, cow.

I may become a vegetarian yet. Or at least a more compassionate sentient being.

Thank you Squirrel for this life lesson.