Ode to Harrison the herisson
Saturday, November 18th, 2006
I found his cold, dead body in the grass under the cherry tree. Our hedgehog, Harrison Jr., was in pretty bad shape. I guess the foxes got to him. Or maybe the neighborhood cats. I thought about roping off the area and asking Son 1 to use his three weeks of forensic science studies to determine who was responsible, but the body was in really bad shape. Plus I was out of yellow tape and there were no batteries in the flashlight.
Even though we live in town, the yard is home to a couple of HERISSONS, that is, hedgehogs. (Thus the name Harrison.) We’ve actually seen 4 foxes in the yard at once, making these horrible crying baby sounds that make the hair on your neck stand up.
One fox that has a shoe fetish. Actually, he only picks on one shoe, the tan Nike belonging to Wife. He’s stolen it, and only it, twice from the balcony, taking it to the neighbor’s, always to the same spot, and does some reverse engineering on the shoe.
I hope Harrison Jr. went quickly. I console myself by repeating that it happened before a cold, hard winter. And at least he wasn’t hit by a car, which is the usual way for herissons to meet their Maker.
Even though we live in town, the yard is home to a couple of HERISSONS, that is, hedgehogs. (Thus the name Harrison.) We’ve actually seen 4 foxes in the yard at once, making these horrible crying baby sounds that make the hair on your neck stand up.
One fox that has a shoe fetish. Actually, he only picks on one shoe, the tan Nike belonging to Wife. He’s stolen it, and only it, twice from the balcony, taking it to the neighbor’s, always to the same spot, and does some reverse engineering on the shoe.
I hope Harrison Jr. went quickly. I console myself by repeating that it happened before a cold, hard winter. And at least he wasn’t hit by a car, which is the usual way for herissons to meet their Maker.
