Journal log entry – Roadkill can be disgusting, and what is worse than that? Roadkill that makes its way to the sidewalk, that’s what (and scary if you think too much into it). I was walking my son to school and there it was. I’d recognized it before in the street, when it still had hair. But now it was on the sidewalk, barely noticeable for what it was, something dead, and completely unnoticeable for what it had been, a groundhog. It might have been a squashed eggplant if it weren’t for the guts coming out of it … and the flies eating the guts … and the guts smelling … and the claws. But I made sure of my footing, because if I’d stepped into that, there would be no drug powerful enough to pull my brain out of that fetal position, and looked away, not wanting to scar my eyes for life.
How does a crow even look at that and say, “Yum?” God blessed them with little brains and no nose I gather would be the answer. And taste is ninety percent smell, so that’s almost covered. They can’t feel anything with their beaks, so that’s a plus in their corner too. But it’s still that ten percent taste thing. I’m going out on a limb to say they don’t have a gag reflex (The other day my son made one of his dessert creations, and I thanked God for my gag reflex. He usually does well with them, but this one he’d used milk, and it’d been sitting on the counter for the past six hours … just a side note … on the importance of it …… a gag reflex I mean. Heaven only knows what would have happened if it had reached my stomach.).
Well I got to a point, looking away and walking past the carcass on the sidewalk, when I feared the corpse having an ounce of zombie life in it and it leaping from its puddle and attacking me. It chilled me to the bones. Damn those horror movies. And then, on top of that, further up on the walk there was a flat mat of hair, with a hairless tail sticking from it … a demented Daniel Boone’s cap for your dolly? It must have been a large mouse … or a small rat. Maybe the crows and flies had finished with this one, so that it was neater than the other.
“Caw! Hey, Jim, you want the tail?”
“No, I don’t like tails.”
“Me either. You want the fur?”
“No, it gives me hairballs.”
“Yeah, I know … me too. Then I guess we’re done?”
“Yep … caw, caw … we’re done.”
Note: When I start talking about roadkill, I can’t think of anything to talk about.
I just saw a crow pecking away and tearing at the abdomen of a dead squirrel. The squirrel in rigor mortis was almost sitting up, and had its arms out, staring at the bird as if wishing to give it a hug. How the hell does it do it … the bird I mean?
I have a growing respect for my butcher … believe you me … the man who makes my food not look like dead animal and who calls it pork and beef instead of pig and cow. Though for some reason saying chicken instead of poultry is not as offensive, but I assure you if there was one feather in the package … gag reflex! Think about it: How today’s society would crumble without the butcher … seriously.
I’ve strayed … sorry … back to the road.
We have the strangest birds around here. They either have that youthful perception that they are invincible and can’t die, or they’re terribly depressed and yearning for that eternal kiss. They like flying out in front of moving cars. It’s crazy. They must be hiding in the bush saying, “Okay, okay, here it comes. Let’s see how close you can get.” And then they pop out, right in front of your bumper and windshield. Most don’t get hit, while others have you imagining that when you finally get to your destination, you’ll be picking beak, feathers, and leg parts out of your grillwork.
And don’t you love those animals that run across the road, and you say, “Oh good they made it.” but then they turn around as if they’re thinking this is a good day to die, or I’ve forgotten my acorn, and you have to swerve to keep from assisting in their martyrdom?
Note: It’s painfully obvious I still don’t know what to write.
Animals are more communal than we thought, and live in a society that is less forgiving.
“Mr. Squirrel, you have been found guilty, by a jury of your peers, of eating Tweedy bird’s birdseed. You therefore have been sentenced to death, your means of execution … the road. And may God have mercy on your soul.” Most of these executions are done at night, so that they can remove the leg shackles from their due process of law, leaving us none the wiser of the part we’ve played.
And we’re also under protest. Did you know that? Some animals, those without the shackles, and possibly during day, are sacrificing themselves to make a point, to deter our car driving (Note: I have to admit, the deer in the headlight look is more deterring than others. Two hundred pounds of venison in your windshield speaks volumes over two ounces of chipmunk under your treads.), while less brave animals, specifically the older birds, sensing their mortality, and able to stitch a nest together but not make diapers, just poop on us. There’s the whole world out there, acreages of it, and they find our cars … coincidence? I think not.
If the insect world had brains enough to know how many of them we’ve killed by cars alone, they’d rise up and exercise their vengeance, making our species a blip on the historical timeline while they dominate the world for another million years (Note: Without much brains, they’ve done very well.).
That’s our downfall … we’ve got too much brain we’re not using, and are too water-based like some paints that are not rich enough in color for me.
What the hell am I talking about?!
A writer should always write. It’s a good exercise, which keeps a writer in shape. So I’m writing, and exercising my ability to write … but the question is: Am I using the 20 pound dumbbells at this moment … or the 1 pounders?
Roger and out