Sarah E. Moffett

[For those that have read Growing Up Moffett, you are familiar with the members of my family. For new readers, allow me to explain that I am inexplicably close to my family, my father fixes, my mother listens, and my siblings and I are best friends. This would be a cheesy Disney movie if it wasn’t for our darker bent. That said, I’ve been getting a lot of questions about the theme and texture of upcoming book 2. In typical Moffett fashion, I’m going to use the below recent story to answer.]

Recently, I was driving back to my office in Old Town Alexandria after a particularly trying day in court. Suddenly, two squirrels that were chasing one another along the curb darted out in front of me. I felt a thump. I stopped. Looked. One was lying on the ground. His back broken, but he was trying to use his front two paws to get out of the street. He was clearly in pain.

It was the most pitiful thing I had seen this side of the bar exam. I, being female, stressed, and tired, immediately responded with class and dignity. I started crying.

Moral support for the imminent humane action was necessary. So while still sitting in the middle of the street, I called Dad at work. No answer. I called Mom at home. No answer. I called the siblings in where-evers-ville. No answer. So I do what I should’ve done the second I saw him struggling. I back up. His little friend watches all of this from the curb.

[Note. This will be priceless someday, but right then, I was on the third to last day of the firm’s fiscal year, needed to be planning an international trip, writing a second book, updating three websites, trying to have a life, and DID NOT NEED THIS RIGHT NOW.]

I finally break ranks with the non answering family and call the only person crazy enough to listen to me. She answers. I explain. She consoles, and offers up ”at least now the other squirrel knows better than to play in the street.”  In the course of our conversation, I tell her I named the squirrel “Nuts,” because he gets some (nuts) in heaven. She graciously covers laughter with coughs, and tells me I did the right thing.

Ten minutes later, I’m back in the office. Mom calls. I try to explain to her what happened. Old Yeller without the hour and 45 minutes of boring build up. Then we hit a snag towards the end of the story.

“And the squirrel’s name was Nuts.”

“How did you arrive at that?”

“Because squirrels get nuts when they go to heaven.”

“Mmm. OK.” Pause. “Do you think pets have souls?”

“No. I think squirrels get nuts in heaven.”

“Mmm. OK. Sarah, you know animals do not go to heaven.”

“[Insert Mother’s first name here], your little girl just ran over a squirrel that was innocently playing, had to back her car over him to end the misery, and wants to believe said squirrel is now in heaven with alot of nuts and a harem of female squirrels. This is not the time to have a spiritual lesson.”

“Do you want to talk to your father about this?”

“At this point, no.”

And we got off the phone.

Welcome to the essence of book two. Intense moral obligation meets emotional need. And beats the crap out of it.

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