I killed a snowshoe hare today.
There it was - hippity, hoppity - scurrying along in its beautiful, brown summer attire. It hopped in front of the car I was driving.
This is one of the reasons why I've been proud to not own a car for the last five years (I was driving a work vehicle today). I grew up in the country. Driving in the country, you kill a lot of cute things.
I hit a little cottontail rabbit with my first car within a week of buying it. I remember wondering if my need to get from Point A to Point B really trumped the bunny's need to be alive.
I also saw a red fox today. I didn't kill that.
I did, however, ride shotgun in my dad's car when he did kill a fox. He was driving me home from the airport one summer evening. We came up over a crest in the dark road and there it was: bright red fur with a fluffy, white-tipped tail, and thin legs tapering down to perfect black socks. As it darted across the road, it glanced up and had just enough time to think the word "crap."
Dad and I rode on in silence for a full minute.
Dad: That was a really pretty fox.