Things had been going well before the misstep. Before the misstep, he was untouchable, stealthy, and acrobatic. Now here he was, in the podunk town of his birth, eating through his own leg in blind hope of surviving before the dogs came to feast. After the first few bites, the pain was transcendent, a drug almost, so far beyond experience he wasn't sure it quite could be categorized in terms of pain and pleasure. As they said on the rough side of town, "It is what it is."
He pulled free with one less foot than he'd had an hour ago and scampered--slouched, really, his scampering days were behind him--for the break in the fence. He might live or he might die but, as always, it was on his terms.
That is, I imagine, what my squirrel noir book would end like. More >>>