USF St. Petersburg is known for its sparkling bay front, tight knit community and small class size, but there are little oddities unique to our downtown campus. Perhaps none is quite so mystifying as the enigmatic death of Rocket the squirrel.
A few steps from Coquina Hall, just beyond the pool, there is a small wooden cross staked in the ground. Crudely etched in black Sharpie across the horizontal plank of the cross is a name: Rocket J. Squirrel. Someone has even scrawled “R.I.P.” across the top.
So who was this Rocket J. Squirrel? Was he a furry friend, a companion between classes? Or did this miniscule menace dart around campus with evil intent?
As most students can attest, USFSP squirrels are surprisingly aggressive. Eating lunch by the harbor? They’ll find you. Sipping some Starbucks by the fountain? They’ll find you.
Sitting passively in the library with no food whatsoever? THEY WILL STILL FIND YOU.
Perhaps Rocket’s untimely demise was due to his insatiable nature. Maybe he hovered around an angry eater just a second too long. But student-on-squirrel violence is pretty uncommon.
Rocket’s departure from this life most likely occurred in one of two ways: death by the elements, or squirrel suicide. Dismissing all thoughts of an intentional demise, Rocket most likely fell prey (literally) or scampered into the road.
Who was there to witness his tragic death? How did he earn his moniker? Was there a tiny casket?
The quest for the true story of Rocket J. Squirrel turns to you, dear reader.
Perhaps you are the student who built the cross. The valiant soul who pressed on in spite of the loss of an irreplaceable furry friend. The one who saw gentleness whether others only saw typical squirrel antics. The person who said a few words at the funeral. The — ok, I think we’ve all had enough. This is getting indulgent.
But next time you walk out of class and pass by the pool, take a moment of silence to remember those who have fallen. Do it for Rocket.
erinmurphy@mail.usf.edu
