Driver’s Remorse

I thought the coiled black ribbon on the highway was just a piece of trash. At the last second, too late to swerve, I realized it was a little black snake. I was on my way home in the early afternoon of Thanksgiving Day, enjoying the bright sun and the unusually warm weather. So was the snake, until I came along. I’ve always liked snakes, ever since my grandmother kept a pet green snake in her yard when I was a little girl. I consoled myself with the thought that this one had probably already been hit, and I’d just finished it off. Unfortunately, the snake was not my first roadkill. A few years ago, as I set out bright and early one December morning to do my Christmas shopping, a beautiful doe hurled herself in front of my car. I never saw her until her head hit the windshield. Believe me, nothing will put a damper on your Christmas spirit quite like mowing down Rudolph’s cousin. In addition to the snake and the deer, my vehicular death toll to date includes two squirrels and a toad. I am, I swear, a reasonably careful driver. But I live out in Dickson County, and gore-strewn roadways are just a part of country life. We’ve got lots of unlit, curvy roads and a multitude of critters scuttling around, none of whom can outrun a rubber and metal behemoth chugging along at 60 mph. I like to think this fact is a powerful argument against the anti-evolution crowd. Surely a merciful god—I mean, an intelligent designer—would have seen this coming and gifted wildlife with an emergency overdrive and the good sense to use it. Instead, we’re going to have to wait a couple of eons until natural selection produces possums that look both ways. By that time, global warming probably will have killed us all, which may be cosmic justice but doesn’t seem much like a divine plan. Meanwhile, I’m doing what I can to minimize my contribution to Technicolor asphalt. I have deer whistles on my car. I watch carefully for the glow of eyes along the highway at night. I flash my headlights at oncoming drivers to warn them about the dog or cat or turtle on the road. But it’s all futile. I could buy a bike and swear off driving forever, but nobody else is going to do that, and the bodies will keep piling up. Which is not entirely a bad thing. It’s certainly keeping a healthy scavenger population going. There’s something kind of charming about seeing a big flock of turkey vultures gather around a deer carcass like a family at their Christmas feast. Occasionally I’ll be lucky enough to see a buzzard fledgling toddle toward some ripe morsel on the shoulder of the highway. Squashed squirrel isn’t my idea of delicious, but you can tell they really get into it, and I like to see others have a good time. And better the coyotes should snag an easy meal than come looking for the neighborhood cats. The world divides into people who think roadkill is gross but funny, and sensitive souls who think every dead skunk is a tragedy. As you can probably tell, I swing both ways. I mourned over that snake for a whole day, but watching a dog square off with the buzzards over a lump of deceased raccoon cracks me up. After a pickup full of teenagers ran me off the road last year, I often find myself surveying the roadside carnage and feeling grateful it’s not me. Mostly, though, I just think it’s all a sad reminder of the harm we do without ever meaning to. You can move through the world with the best of intentions and a malice-free heart, and you’ll still wreak plenty of havoc. It’s just part of the deal, and there’s no escape clause. Things are gonna die because you’re alive. You can transform yourself into a bike-pedaling, organic-cotton-wearing, recycling ultra-vegan, but you’ve still got to have food to eat, water to drink and shelter from the storm. The production of all those things, no matter how carefully done, will displace and ultimately do in some of your fellow creatures. Your footprint can never be small enough to keep you from having blood on your hands. Sorry. Take it up with the intelligent designer. Or be like me, and take comfort in the knowledge that there are some things you just can’t do squat about. Of course, if you feel really, really bad, you could take charge of that cosmic justice thing yourself and exit the planet without delay, preferably via some low-tech, environmentally friendly method, like jumping off a cliff. Just be careful where you land.