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blizzard warnings - 13:52 , 03 October 2013 heelerless - 21:32 , 18 August 2013 Red Coat Inn in Fort McLeod - 11:38 , 23 June 2013 rushing into the waters - 09:53 , 21 June 2013 choosing a spot - 17:43 , 27 April 2013 |
roadkills
Standing there in the kitchen, the wife mentions the incident she had with a rabbit on the drive home. Crazy critter waited to the last minute and made a mad, and fatal, dash into her lane.
Yeah, I ran over a rabbit today, too.
Took five tries, but I finally got it.
The shock on her face lasted only a fraction of a second. A fraction when you could see she was suddenly doubting if she even knew this man she'd married so many years ago. Then rationality retook control, and she forced herself to ask, "What was the matter with it?"
We were driving along the river, on the paved highway that heads north to one of our last classification routes. And as I dodged the bits and pieces of rabbit, both cotton and jack, spattered on the road, I moved to straddle a large chunk in the middle of a big bend around the river.
As the dead rabbit passed out of view under the hood of the truck, I saw it.
It lifted its head.
Ohhh, craaaap.
You can see the road for a half mile both ways, so I slam on the brakes and check my side mirror.
Yep. Still alive. The back half is smashed flat, but the front half of the rabbit doesn't know it's dead yet. That little thing could live and suffer for hours there. I aim carefully, and quickly back up to deliver the coup de grace.
And miss.
Oookay. Backing up a pickup truck isn't exactly a precise killing weapon. I line the front left tire for the head of the rabbit, and charge again.
And miss.
Whoa.
Looking in the mirror again, I see the poor rabbit, panicking because it has narrowly missed death at least four times now, and it wants to live. But the flattened back end is stuck to the pavement, and all it is doing is spinning in circles on itself.
No wonder I missed.
Backing up yet again, this time I aim for the mass, not the head.
Thump thump.
The rabbit is no more. The suffering is no more. And, just to be sure, I aim at the head of the mass yet again before continuing on our way.
Thump thump.
We're coming up on something like the fourth or fifth gate of the route. The road a pair of narrow ruts in this soft clay soil, deep in shadow, passing through a prairie dog town. I notice a grey cow pie in the bottom of the left tire track.
Okayyy, if it's grey, it shouldn't splatter too much on the truck, and I continue up the slight slope.
Just as it disappears under view of the hood, the grey cowpie shifts.
Ohhh craaaap!
I try to throw the truck out of the road, but I'm too late.
Pop!
The noise sounds exactly like a kid stomping on a sealed ketchup packet, only louder. Right exactly below my open window. And I know what I have done.
I back up alongside, and look into the shadowy rut.
Yep. Rattlesnake.
Damn.
But it looks OK. Pissed as hell, but sidewinding itself quickly down the rut. I look at where I ran over the snake, and see a snake impression deep in the soft dirt.
Could it have been run over and still live?
If so, what was that 'pop'?
Well, in either case, this is another wonderful photo op. I grab the camera, and start capturing images.
Then I see it. A smudge of red in the dirt beside the snake. And there's another. Light little rust coloured stains in the clay soil.
I put down the camera and get the shovel. And pin the snake's head firmly into the dirt. Then, with my left hand, I reach down and grab the tail of the rattler, and stetch it out.
Looks okay.
Being sure to keep a firm grip on the shovel, I turn the snake's body over in my hand. There's blood from the anal opening.
That's not good.
And there, a few inches from the head of the snake, is another hole. A half-inch split in the belly scales, leaking blood.
Crap.
There's my 'pop'.
Releasing the snake, and then its head, I try to ponder what to do.
I know what to do. I just don't want to.
Maybe it can make it. It's a reptile, after all. Might be able to heal the injuries.
I look at the snake. The head rests on the ground now, no longer threatening. It doesn't track my slowly waved hand. Kick dirt, and it strikes, but blindly, the wrong direction.
Crap.
I use the shovel one more time, and then we're on our way.
Heelers are distressed they aren't allowed out at the gate. But I'm not in the mood for drag races.