NOV 22, 2010 – 12:00AM

I distinctly recall the day I became a reviled enemy of an entire family of rodents.

It was a crisp winter Sunday in my childhood. It seems I was late in my elementary-school or early in my junior-high years.

As my family began to scurry about getting ready to head to church, my mother said she wasn’t feeling well and would be staying home. Quick to recognize an opportunity, I managed a fake cough, grimaced as I pointed to my throat and swallowed and maybe even copped to the ultimate out — an upset stomach.

My father, perhaps daunted by the thought of having to sit through a service next to my brother and me, squirming and fighting, without the benefit of Old Mother Buffer, said I could stay home, too.

My mom, recognizing a fellow faker, didn’t demand I head to bed or any sensible flu-fighting measures and instead left me to my own devices, which back in my day meant TV or video games (yes, we did have electricity. Plumbing, too.)

At some point, I recall gazing out the back window at the snow on the ground and spying a squirrel feasting at one of our bird feeders.

We kept a BB gun by the back door to scare off the opportunistic tree rats. Dad, a crack shot, would plink away with glee at the limbs below the squirrels’ little thieving pink feet as they scampered away, leaving the bounty to the poor, starving little birdies we wanted instead.

On this Sunday, bored, I picked up the BB gun, slipped outside and drew a bead on a particularly brazen squirrel. The weapon featured a hand pump, which I remember pumping maybe seven times, took a step or two forward … and the squirrel turned tail.

Calmly, I took aim just below his feet, led the beastie, slowly squeezed the trigger … and PFFFTT … the projectile flew true. Ish. I didn’t hear the expected crack of BB on wood and assumed I missed — until the squirrel made it a couple of feet up the trunk, slowly nosed away, then took a header in the snow. And didn’t move.

At first I was thrilled and looked for someone to high-five. (Although, back in those prehistory days, I’m not sure the high-five had been invented. To celebrate, I guess we had to settle for pedestrian low-fives, or maybe we just rattled a couple of mastodon tusks together.)

The elation was short-lived as the gravity of the situation sunk in. I had lied to get out of going to church, then to cap my Sunday debauchery, I had carelessly extinguished the life of one of His creatures. Oops.

Hardly the picture of virile manliness that I am now, I did the only thing I could think to do: I started bawling.

My mom, bless her heart, tried to console me, suggesting maybe the squirrel was just stunned and eventually would stand up, shake its head a couple of times and scamper away.

I dared to peek. No, it was well on its way to becoming a corpsicle, a fact my dad confirmed when he came home. Then he let me in on the secret: One flick of the gun’s hand pump was more than enough to send a message squirrel-ward; seven pumps was surely fatal.

I bawled some more, then vowed never again to be the cause of another squirrel’s untimely demise.

I worried I had broken that vow a couple of years ago on a ride out by Perry Lake. Pedaling along on a pan-flat stretch of road with nary a tree within hundreds of yards, I caught sight of a squirrel heading my way, running down the middle of the road. It was a bizarre scene, made all the more bizarre when it deked one way, then bee-lined for my back tire. I had enough warning to take evasive action, but I still caught the little bugger. It ran off into the weeds, however, so I’m guessing it survived with nothing more than a bruised ego. If squirrels have egos, that is. Or bruise.

But just the other night, I again ran afoul of the squirrel set.

I was close to work, pedaling along in the evening gloaming when I saw two squirrels running across my path. I instinctively clucked at them — sometimes I talk to the squirrels; anything to get their attention and scare them out of the way. But like the deer alongside the highway, it’s the one you don’t see that gets you.

A third rodent bolted out in front of me, and I was too stunned to react. I managed to miss it with my front wheel, but the back wheel rolled over the poor varmint with a sickening thud.

I considered circling around and going back, but what was I going to do? Hold his little paw as his light flickered, assuring him he’d led a life worth living? Call a little squirrel ambulance? Notify next of kin? I rode on.

Once I got to work, I looked my bike over, half expecting to see blood or maybe a tuft or two of hair. But the only evidence I found was a mark or two in the dirt on my back rim, which I’m sure was where the unfortunately little bugger met wheel.

A few hours later, I rode back by the spot. I don’t know what I expected to see: a taped-off crime scene, perhaps, with a chalk outline, or maybe a candlelight vigil, but there was nothing.

With any luck, history didn’t repeat itself, and I didn’t inadvertently snuff another squirrel.

Maybe I just stunned it.