I love fried squirrel. My husband will not kill any for me. He says thdy are rats. One of mt students brought me several squirrels ready to cook once. He felt sorry for me. Loved that kid.
When my dad was a teenager he was out squirrel hunting. This was in the remote Appalachians in the 1930’s. He got shot: he may have fallen asleep, but he was shot in the shoulder, his neck and he lost an ear.
Someone found him bleeding and stumbling along a road and took him to a hospital in Asheville. They treated him and admitted him to the hospital. He was a good looking young man and was popular with the nurses. But after a week or so, he noticed they stopped coming by his room.
He flagged down one of the nurses and asked her why everyone was seemingly avoiding him. She said she guessed he had a right to know. He had developed severe necrosis: his flesh was rotting. The doctors had not been able to locate the necrotic tissue, but the smell was overpowering. That’s why the nurses were avoiding him.
Later in the day my dad flagged her down again. He said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Would you do me a favor? My hunting jacket is hanging on the back of the door. Would you look and see if there are 4-5 squirrels in the pocket?”
That was the necrotic tissue.