It was the first time I killed a chipmunk. Now, I know what you’re thinking, and no, it was not on purpose. And yes, I do feel terrible because of it. 

It was a bright, sunny Saturday morning. I headed to the bank to cash a check. After turning a ninety degree turn, I drove down the long stretch to the stop sign. I was coming up to a tree when suddenly, a little brown blob darts into the street. I slam on my brakes to not hit the blob. I soon figured out it was a chipmunk. I slowed enough for the chipmunk to, hopefully, make it across. 

As I passed the spot of danger, I glanced in my rear view mirror. I saw no flattened chipmunk in the road. Whew! I sighed with relief. I was not a chipmunk murderer. 

After the bank, I drove down the same road where I saw the chipmunk. As I neared the same tree I noticed something in the road. I slowed down. To my horror, it was the same chipmunk I thought I had not murdered. As if things couldn’t get worse, there were two large black crows pecking on his flesh. 

I felt the shaking and quaking in my face and the hot watery sensation on my eyes. I practically burst into tears. Killing the chipmunk was enough to make me feel remorse. But the crows? Really, the crows? They were just the icing on the cake. I had just unintentionally made the crows breakfast. The poor chipmunk couldn’t even have a peaceful death. 

If there was any way I could re-do that morning so the chipmunk lives, I would. Sadly, I haven’t figured out time travel yet. And so my legacy goes on. The chipmunk murderer.