“There’s a squirrel in the pool again, daddy!”
The two older children had their noses against the glass of the screen door, and were almost vibrating with the energy only the very young can have first thing in the morning. I sighed and shuffled to the doorway.
Sure enough, a bedraggled, gray form was paddling back and forth in the water, trapped by the slick, blue plastic of the pool’s inflatable rim. Muttering curses, I padded out the back door and down the steps.
As I approached, pool skimmer in hand, I saw the squirrel floating, motionless, just its nose above the water. I watched as it rolled, slowly, until its face was submerged, then, with a convulsive movement, it began to paddle once more. When I scooped it from the water, it lay still on the flat mesh of the skimmer, staring at me with bright, black eyes. It didn’t move even after I laid it on the ground next to the porch wall.
Figuring it’d recover after a bit, I headed back into the kitchen and went on with getting the kids’ breakfasts ready.
But later, after the family was fed, the squirrel was still huddled on the end of the skimmer, its head resting on the concrete, eyes half-shut, its small, limp form twitching occasionally. The knowledge began to sink in, then; I knew what I was going to have to do.
I dug the hole near the compost enclosures. I dug it deep enough so the children couldn’t disturb the body with their dirt play. Then I carried the skimmer, with its soaked, shivering load, over to where the moist earth showed dark against the green grass.
The squirrel lay on its side, whimpering and pawing feebly at the dirt after I tipped it off the skimmer. It’s tail was a limp mat of grey, and its small hands and feet were curled and shaking. It looked much smaller wet than it had as it perched on the porch roof the day before.
It wasn’t going to recover from it’s near-drowning, that was clear. The only mercy I could offer it was several sharp strokes with the shovel blade and a decent burial. It was over quickly.
*
I’ve known people who were casual about killing small animals. I cannot be that way. It smacks of cruelty to me, of disregard for life. What I did this morning I did regretfully, out of pity, and knowing the necessity of it did not make it any easier.
But I did it. I had to.
And then the analogy occurred to me.
See, sometimes as writers, we drag our characters through some horrifying situations, some seriously brutal, soul-crushing trauma. They bleed, inside and out, and often we find ourselves right down in the muck with them, scouring ourselves in the process of finding the truth we want to portray on the page. It’s not an easy thing to do.
Yet we do it. Because in the catharsis of our characters, we may be giving hope to readers who struggle with the same trauma. Because we speak, others may find their voice.
Sure, it’s not always that way. Sometimes fiction is just entertainment, diversion. But the right story, written truly, can change lives.
We writers shed light on the secret things, those dark places we’d prefer not to acknowledge, the old wounds that have never fully healed. Sometimes we have to yank memories kicking and screaming into the light so we can write through them, transform them so perhaps someone, somewhere, won’t feel so alone someday when they read our words. Sometimes it’s like peeling pieces out of our souls.
It’s difficult. It can be agonizing. But it is also necessary.
We do it. We have to.
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