Road Kill

My neighbor came over this afternoon while the guys were hauling away my junk pile. As guys are wont to do, we chatted for awhile about numerous topics before his real purpose was announced. It seemed that Chris was concerned because there was a chicken over at his house, and now it was up a tree because his cat was trying to get to it.

The issue for him was concern that this was our other neighbors' chicken ( they just put up a coop earlier this summer). I thanked the guys who were hauling my trash, and told Chris I would scoot over to Steve and Heidi's to check on the coop and then come over to his place. As it happened, the coop was intact along with the eleven hens and rooster. I started to wonder if perhaps the folks who lived back beyond Steve and Heidi had a chicken that got loose.

I made my way back through the woods to my house and then over to Chris's next door. He came out and took me to the far side of his yard and pointed up into one of the trees. There ,in fact, about 25 feet off the ground, was a fowl, most definitely not a chicken. To the best of my limited knowledge in such matters, it appeared to be a juvenile peacock of all things.

A little later in the afternoon I went to let the dogs out and Lola made a beeline for the bushes. True to her nature as a huntress she flushed this poor "peacock" who made a brave flight to freedom onto the roof of my porch. It was at this point that my love of animals began to get the best of me and I almost began calling around to see who might have peacocks so this poor guy could get home.

I get like that with animals. I can't help myself. There's a small flock of wild turkeys that are hanging out down the road lately and one of the hens has a bum leg. I can't tell if it was always bad or had only recently been broken. My heart goes out to her. The last time I saw the flock afew days ago, she was still alive and kicking (well, sort of) hopping along with the rest of them. I worry that she'll not survive the winter; that the other turkeys will abandon her and leave her to die alone. (crazy, no?)

I can't pass road kill on the highway either without feeling a slight tug in my heart. It seems like such a waste - such wanton death. Every time, I am reminded of an essay I read in Harper's magazine a number of years ago. Today I thought to use technology to track down that essay and I succeeded.

I was amazed at how long ago this essay was published. I started my search parameters for the past six years without success, so I widened the date range. Much to my surprise the essay was published nineteen years ago! I am happy to report that I now have a digital copy of said essay that has moved me (in recollection) for so many years.

The essay, written by Barry Lopez, was published in the July 1990 issue of Harper's Magazine. Who Are These Animals We Kill describes the writer's journey across country from Washington to Indiana to visit friends, respectfully pulling over and moving road kill off the highway.

"I do not stop to remove each dark blister from the road. I wince before the recently dead, feel my lips tighten, see something else, a fence post, in the spontaneous aversion of my eyes, and pull over. I imagine white-silk threads of life still vibrating inside them, even if the body's husk is stretched out for yards, stuck like oiled muslin to the road. The energy that held them erect leaves like a bullet; but the memory of that energy fades slowly from the wrinkled cornea, the bloodless fur."

His writing is powerful and he touched me deeply those many years ago, long before I envisioned leaving my urban life in Chicago. Wikipedia lists a number of books and I will soon expand my library to include some of his work.

I often feel silly about my emotional connection to animals--perhaps because I don't completely understand it. It's not the death of the animal in as much as it is the manner of the death. I am not against hunting per se. Many of the hunters and fisherman here in the Upper Peninsula consume what they kill - it is not about the sport of killing for killing's sake (though there is one physician up here who's house looks a bit like a modern day Adam's family home with all his "trophies"--he kills just to have another dead animal for his collection).

Barry Lopez goes on to write: "We treat the attrition of lives on the road like the attrition of lives in war: horrifying, unavoidable, justified. Accepting the slaughter leaves people momentarily fractious, embarrassed."

Accepting the slaughter - that is what we do with road kill, isn't it? I repeat his initial question and ask, who are these animals we kill? I'm not anthropomorphizing here - the animals truly do not know what hit them. Yet I can't help wondering if when the deer gets that deer-in-the-headlights-look if the words "Oh, shit!" don't cross his or her mind in that final second.

I remember driving home from Munising in a snow storm along Lake Superior. A mother raccoon and her litter of five rather large pups crossed ahead of me and my sigh of relief was cut short by a gasp of horror as I realized the oncoming car probably took out half the litter.

"Each animal is like a solitary child's shoe in the road."

Peace.