This evening, when you say your prayers, say one for Sarah's car. It has a one in fifty-seven chance of wearing Odocoileus virginianus on the hood, a door or any of four fenders. That's pretty good odds! Not good for the deer or for Sarah--just good odds.
I heard on the radio that West Virginia leads the nation in collisions between large mammals of and automobiles. I was thinking of retiring there. Now I'm glad I moved to Arizona.
Not every collision results in roadkill. Take a look at that mule, for instance. The pickup truck fared worse than he did. But I got to thinking about all the roadkill I've encountered in four decades of driving, and I knew Sarah Cooper would be a good draw. (After four months of reading your Hurricane Blog, Sarah, I can't think of West Virginia without immediately thinking of you. This blogging stuff gets in your head, doesn't it?)
Roadkill, of course, isn't confined to West Virginia. Most of it doesn't even get our attention. County highway crews will paint over roadkill. "Not my job!" is what you'll hear over the hiss of the spray paint truck. Take a look on Flickr (that's where most of these photos came from, to their credit.) Okay, don't do that. Stay right here. 
Most of the stuff is gross. Some of it's sort of funny, if your sense of humor is a little warped. When you're driving to your next listing appointment, keep your eyes peeled for stuff that has "passed on."
I tie flys. If you're a fly fisherman, you'll understand the story I'm about to tell you. I was walking a three mile route through the neighborhood. As I rounded the corner, there was a squirrel, dead as a doornail, laying in the road. The little guy was still warm, and there was hardly a scratch on him. I think the car came so close that he had a heart attack or something. I picked him up by his hind feet and continued walking. (Squirrel tail makes wonderful fly tying material.)
I'm 6'3", 250 pounds, and I must have made quite a sight walking along, arms swinging, and that little squirrel hanging down and swinging right along. At the next intersection, maybe 200' away, a car came slowly to a stop. The driver looked at me as I approached. I didn't think I was close enough for him to see the squirrel clearly, but he saw it. Halfway out into the intersection, he stopped and just stared at me.
It must have taken me a good minute to close the distance between us. I was going to have to go right past him. As I walked along, he never took his eyes off me, and that car of his didn't move an inch. I knew he was going to say something. What that might be, I couldn't guess, but from the look of disapproval on his face, I expected it might be confrontational.
Sure enough, as I got within ten feet, he bellowed: "What the x@?!# do you think you're doing?" "What does it look like I'm doing?" I replied. "I'm walking my squirrel."
I was in my thirties before I found out that armadillos aren't born deadon the side of the road. It was only last year, though, at the mature age of 58, that I learned how most of these armadillo tragedies come about. They're alcohol related. Seeing is believing!
Keep the shiny side up while you're driving to those real estate appointments, and don't forget to say a prayer for Sarah Cooper's car out there in West Virginia.
Mike in Tucson,
REALTOR®/Mortgage Lender
