Sunday, 30 June 2002 | Squirrel

Stopped at an intersection on my way to the beach yesterday, I inched forward by taking my foot off the brake while simultaneously looking left, failing to notice that the mini-van in front of me had not actually disappeared like I thought it had; a moment later I heard the gentle clunk of kissing metal. Before I had a chance to react, the man in the mini-van jumped out of the front seat, hastily glanced at our bumpers, leaned over my open window and said, "I'm-okay-you're-okay-let's-go!" and skipped back to his vehicle.

Back in Raleigh today, riding my bike on a curvy path at Lake Crabtree, I rounded a bend and noticed a squirrel sitting on two legs at the edge of the path, busy with something between its front paws. Just as I got close to the creature, it darted underneath my front tire, scrambled for its life in a cloud of legs and fluff, and then scurried off in the direction it came from. I was afraid that I'd run over at least one of its limbs, but apparently it escaped unharmed. I imagine it meant to say the same words the man in the mini-van had said the day before.