meaning well.

The whole, "Don't do this because people will think that you're weird" thing never really applied to me. Ever. When I was a little kid, I'd wear capes to school when it wasn't halloween. I even went through a phase where I tried to convince my classmates that I was a hobbit in the fifth grade after reading The Lord of the Rings. Which is probably why, at age seventeen, I was sitting in my backyard with my best (and by best I mean only) friend, about to hold a funeral for a raccoon we found by Route 9.1

I told her that if we didn't bury it, its soul would wander the planet, lost and alone for the rest of eternity. She said it smelled funny, and then she lit a cigarette and tapped the ashes off in the animal's half rotted mouth.2

"You're hurting his soul. If you damage his body, he won't be able to go into the afterlife," I informed her, moving to brush the ashes away.3

"I am not. Maybe the raccoon wanted a smoke. Did you ever think of that?" She grumbled, taking another drag and flicking her lighter absently.4

I said the same thing about the rat we found curled up behind a trash can in the middle of the winter a couple of years ago. She'd proceeded to light it on fire, telling me that it wanted to be warm.5

I've always had a nagging suspicion that she didn't really care, and she just liked to watch things burn.6

In the back of my mind, I've kind of always hated being such a loner and never having any friends or anything except a girl who sets dead rats on fire. Every now and then I wonder why nobody else ever talks to me.7

Our dreams tell us the truth about life and love and everything that we're trying to figure out but never can. In my dreams, I walk past dead animals and completely ignore them. 8

"Besides, it's not like the dude isn't damaged or whatever already," She added as an afterthought as she stared down what was left of the raccoon's throat.9

"Well tapping burning ashes from your cancer stick in his mouth isn't making him any better,"10

I know that she means well, she just has her own special way of saying it. We're all unique and we all have our difficulties. Proper treatment of the deceased is hers. She really does mean well though, I'm sure of it. How could somebody not care what happened to this poor raccoon's soul?11

I picked him up and put him in his hole, and then shoved the dirt I'd dug up back over him, and then we stood over the mound of dirt for a few minutes. Then she threw her cigarette butt on it, turned and walked back home.12

I dreamt about raccoons that night. They were everywhere and I laid on the ground, rotting and dead but somehow still conscious, while the raccoon I buried stood over me and dropped ashes in my mouth and rats poured gasoline over me and lit my arms on fire.13

Maybe she didn't mean well after all.