Pickling

“Anything can be pickled,” said Joe.
We were sitting on his front porch, watching the dust blow over the road when he said this.
“What?” I asked.
“Anything can be pickled,” said Joe.
A squirrel ran across the road.
“Could you pickle that?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “Hold on.”
Joe pulled out his gun, shot the squirrel, and walked out to get it.
“Did you have to shoot the thing?” I asked.
“Well, you can’t pickle these things alive,” said Joe. “They tend to claw up the inside of the glass and crap themselves.”
I guess he’s right.