After traveling miles and miles of highway in at least 46 states, you could say I am an expert observer of Road Kill. Possums and armadillos are the most frequent animals decorating the sides of the road, closely following in number by squirrels, dogs and deer. In fact possums and armadillos head up two other road kill categories, nastiest kill and easiest kill.
One of those dark, rainy nights when I was taking a newspaper to the press 70 miles away, I added to the possum total myself. This fat possum ambled out from the left side of a two-lane road, taking his time going wherever he was going. All the driving tips say, don't slam on the brakes and endanger your own life over an animal, so I took my foot off the gas, held the steering wheel tightly and splattered the possum. Not a pleasant sensation, but I got three points.
One week on the way to work, I spotted a coyote, wolf carcass on the side of the highway. Dirty white and skinny. The second day it was dirtier and fatter. On the way home on the third day, I was surprised to see this carcass had become a solid wine-colored gelantinus mass, like something you would see on CSI. Three miles passed before I figured out that some cowboy had skinned that coyote. Now, you know, he had to want that pelt really bad to skin a carcass that had spent two days in the Texas sun.
Hardest points to make on the road kill scorecard are snakes, and you get the most points for a reptile. Somehow they just twist in the air and slither off, even after a direct roll over.
Saddest of all the dead animals are the deer. Once on a toll road between Lexinton and Paducah, I counted 12 dead deer. That is a personal one-day record.
Recently I spied two dogs on the roadside, nudging their late companion who unfortunately had not been quite fast enough to make it across four lanes of traffic. The two survivors were obviously puzzled that the tan and white hound did not get up again to join them in whater fun and games had led them to cross the road. But alas, Lassie wasn't going home again.
In cartoons, like my favorite, Roadrunner and Coyote, road kill can be mashed flat as paper and then rise up again to run off. Once I saw a white cat in the median of a busy highway that was just about that flat, with its legs at the 10-2-4 and 8 postition, a real surprised look on its face. Usually, there is nothing amusing about road kill, but I had to laugh at that one. It looked like it had taken a direct hit from a steam roller.
The most beautiful road kills are the butterflies. The ones in your radiator count, and they can be perfectly preserved in death.
Death does not discriminate on the highway, no more than it does in life. I've logged prarie dogs, beaver, chickens, cows, rabbits, squirrels, birds, ducks and even a horse, as I drove across the country.
My road kill count is up to 237,568, but who's counting?
One of those dark, rainy nights when I was taking a newspaper to the press 70 miles away, I added to the possum total myself. This fat possum ambled out from the left side of a two-lane road, taking his time going wherever he was going. All the driving tips say, don't slam on the brakes and endanger your own life over an animal, so I took my foot off the gas, held the steering wheel tightly and splattered the possum. Not a pleasant sensation, but I got three points.
One week on the way to work, I spotted a coyote, wolf carcass on the side of the highway. Dirty white and skinny. The second day it was dirtier and fatter. On the way home on the third day, I was surprised to see this carcass had become a solid wine-colored gelantinus mass, like something you would see on CSI. Three miles passed before I figured out that some cowboy had skinned that coyote. Now, you know, he had to want that pelt really bad to skin a carcass that had spent two days in the Texas sun.
Hardest points to make on the road kill scorecard are snakes, and you get the most points for a reptile. Somehow they just twist in the air and slither off, even after a direct roll over.
Saddest of all the dead animals are the deer. Once on a toll road between Lexinton and Paducah, I counted 12 dead deer. That is a personal one-day record.
Recently I spied two dogs on the roadside, nudging their late companion who unfortunately had not been quite fast enough to make it across four lanes of traffic. The two survivors were obviously puzzled that the tan and white hound did not get up again to join them in whater fun and games had led them to cross the road. But alas, Lassie wasn't going home again.
In cartoons, like my favorite, Roadrunner and Coyote, road kill can be mashed flat as paper and then rise up again to run off. Once I saw a white cat in the median of a busy highway that was just about that flat, with its legs at the 10-2-4 and 8 postition, a real surprised look on its face. Usually, there is nothing amusing about road kill, but I had to laugh at that one. It looked like it had taken a direct hit from a steam roller.
The most beautiful road kills are the butterflies. The ones in your radiator count, and they can be perfectly preserved in death.
Death does not discriminate on the highway, no more than it does in life. I've logged prarie dogs, beaver, chickens, cows, rabbits, squirrels, birds, ducks and even a horse, as I drove across the country.
My road kill count is up to 237,568, but who's counting?
