Psychotic Bastardizations of Compassion

This is a “re-post” from the motorcycle guys in Lubbock that I keep an eye on. I agree with the author, but never thought about the subject like he did.
Date: Sat, May 10 2008 5:56 pm
From: Tim Warren

This is what happened this weekend to my brother. He can get into his stories a bit.

A sigh of relief follows the jingle of keys as I pull them from the ignition of my truck. “Finally, a quiet weekend at home”, I tell my wife after a typical busy day at work. Our cat meows from the garage as we exit the vehicle. I head for the mail as my wife goes to greet our eager and hungry animals.

A short stroll across the lawn of my corner lot in our San Antonio subdivision brings me to the sidewalk along my backyard fence. “Great”, I muttered in mild disappointment and frustration, “more trash in my yard”. Plastic cups, receipts, and all sorts of debris mysteriously appear there to become the subject of my near daily chore. I often wonder if the gentle breezes through these suburban streets bless me with the array of undesirable gift, or if passersby casually discard them so frequently. The latter notion came racing to my mind on the wheels of suspicion when on this particular day a full edition of today’s city newspaper caught my eye. In the grass against the fence, half way to the community mailbox laid the paper, stacked semi- neatly; almost placed into position. And, “oh look”, I said to myself, “a dead squirrel too”.

“Honey”, I called to my wife before she entered our house, “could you come here a minute”. I had suddenly become determined, in my usual fashion, to show her my latest interesting find she probably chalks up as pointless. “A dead squirrel” I told her, “right next to a complete Express”. “Look at the traces of blood”, I added as I pointed to the crinkled edge of the pages. “Alright!” she sarcastically remarked as she turned to resume her activity. I figured the animal was an unintended casualty of some driver, and so I gently tossed it back into the street from which it most likely came.

This was too easy a task for someone who grew up in the woods, understanding the realities of life and death perhaps far greater than the majority of my urbanite neighbors. I was raised a gun toting, God loving person, respectful of my fellow man, the very bane of a democratic elitist politician.

Hell cometh on four wheels.

Ah, to be in the backyard playing with my new Labrador puppy. Over an hour arriving home I was showering my furry pupil with figurative gold stars at the end of another successful retrieving session. I was pondering our possible future trips for ducks over water or pheasants in the plains when a small SUV slowly creeps to a stop along my fence. This is a regular occurrence as many people wheel up to get their mail outside my yard in the evening. This time, however, was an exception.

Through the narrow cracks in the fence I caught a glimpse of a person stepping past the mailboxes up and into my yard. They stoop to pick up the newspaper and then make their way out into the street. A few seconds later, the SUV was off and my property was once again blessed with a dead squirrel.

“Did that really just happen?”, I thought. Seconds later the little SUV whizzed by and headed back in the direction from which it came. “I gotta check this out” I told my young dog. So it was, and with the flick of a wrist I was once again rid of the “not so grateful dead”.
The SUV boldly reappears after only seconds back with my playful pup. “You have got to be kidding” I thought. The mystery saint for road kill took her lifeless rescue to the far corner of my lawn this time. I voiced my protest as the deeds in vain ended in a thud. “That’s still my yard” I said firmly. A woman’s voice came sharply snapping back, “it’s public property!”. “Then why do I have to mow it?”, I quickly rebutted. “I’ll do it again!” she fired back. I paused at the utter childishness. “Show some respect!” she sarcastically added. “It’s just a squirrel!” I yelled.

Too late. The bleeding heart had already shut the door to her vehicle.

Respect? How about respect me, a human being, and respect my property?

Who was this head case? Half way into her u-turn I rose up from petting the dog and peered over the fence. I looked at the license plate as she drove away. “Too many characters for Texas. Blue on a white background. Ah yes, the lazy red letters at the top spelled nothing less, or rather nothing more than California. The SUV disappeared again at the end of the street.


Back to my dog, but only for half a minute until the rabid do-gooder reappeared at the end of the street just before wheeling back out of sight. She reappeared yet again, not completely sure I had not snuck back out to tamper with her pet project. This time she drives all the way up to my fence to peer down upon the deceased before driving away for the rest of the evening. “What perversion motivates these people into psychotic bastardizations of compassion”, I wondered.

Moments later the squirrel and I take a walk to an open, grassy drainage ditch not thirty yards away. Finally, it may rest in peace until the cats of the night start their prowl.

I often hear conversations of people from other regions of the country flocking in droves to my fine state. They sell their small houses and condos for fortunes in cash to enjoy the cheaper living expenses, steadier economy, and relatively wide-open spaces of Texas. Their big money makes ranchers give their land over to developers. The economic effects of this invasion are similar to the aftermath of government programs typically instituted by democrats: cost goes up as quality goes down. And as for the wide-open spaces, I now have a greater understanding of what the Indians must have felt like when they were invaded.

I also have a mad woman in my neighborhood not afraid to cram her sick, twisted spin on reality down my throat, and on my own property no less. When in Texas, do as the Texans do. I can only imagine how she votes, changing my state and my country for the worse.

And this is the true tragedy of the squirrel: that a diseased lot move in to blur the perspective that was once black and white, infecting new generations with poisoned eyes that now see gray areas of relativism stimulating actions born of reckless emotion, void of truth, sound logic and respect for fellow man.

Tim Warren

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