He stared at the dead animal. This was just too perfect. He smiled grimly, envisioning himself scooping up the broken, bloody bundle of fur, and taking it with him to the funeral. Perhaps even laying it in the coffin, beside his great aunt’s body, to enjoy the same pompous last rites. She would have laughed. She always laughed when he was funny.
The rest of the family, of course, would stare in open-mouthed horror, whispering their outrage.
“What’s wrong with him?!”
“Surely even he can respect a funeral!”
His mother would be silent, of course. Humiliated once again by her strange son. She probably should have put him into an institution years ago, but now he was too old…
He shook his head, dismissing the daydream.
He picked up the small body and gently carried it across the road into the field. He laid it down in a hollow and slowly ripped up handful after handful of grass to cover it. It would make a welcome meal for some fox tonight, but for now he could honor the life he had taken.
“It ran under your wheels,” he heard his aunt say, “it wasn’t your fault.”
He did not feel better.
“You cannot control these things,” she’d said, “Animals know when their time is up. But sometimes we need help to let go.”
She had always called him her little helper.
This small funeral completed at last, he got back in his car and continued driving to the next.
