When you’re shopping for dead squirrels, it’s tempting to go for the classic Old West cowboy squirrel, with his hat and tiny revolver. A mid-level dead-squirrel enthusiast might go for the hunter squirrel, decked out in orange vest and rifle. But the true treasure of dead squirrels is the Canoe Squirrel, rowing down the river of Eternity with his proportionately-sized paddle and craft. Just a passenger on the ship of life, like all of us, except dead, and full of polyester stuffing, with no eyeballs, and glass beads sewn beneath the skin to give the appearance of life.
We’re all searching for meaning. This dog is just one of us, bumbling through the universe, never getting more than a tenth of a percent of the way to enlightenment. Who are we to judge this creature? Who among us would be the first to say that silently stalking a victim in the night for revenge before returning home to tongue the deeply-resonant indigenous Australian instrument is no way to achieve bliss and knowledge? Not I, and nor should you. Namaste.
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