Horsekeeping by Roxanne Bok Page B

not in my eyes, warming my skin. The trees’ highest leaves, encouraged by the west wind, tickle the expanse of blue sky, their rustle a lively chorus. The road is smooth, clear and clean from yesterday’s thunderstorm. Feeling light and perfectly content, even dying might be acceptable. I’m in the now, the moment, not bothered by the past or anticipating the future—so exquisite, it’s enough for one lifetime. It lasts about a minute or two if I am lucky. Ahhhhh . . . but hold on.
    What’s that ?
    Oh no .
    Please don’t let it be ....
    But there it is.
    Road kill.
    A once robust, happy-go-lucky raccoon, now freshly dead, its back half smeared along the macadam, red and raw, an extended intestine, a petite black paw curled in; or, a week old carcass, bloated beyond belief, arms sticking out like the fingers of an inflated surgical glove; or the flattened, soggy fur of one such balloon recently exploded.
    I will never harden to road kill, and could shed tears for each and every one if I let myself. I had read about the naturalist poet Barry Lopez, who pulled over to retrieve every flattened critter he came across, make-shifting a grave and whispering a prayer. I feel the urge to be so noble, but am usually time-deprived, or not dressed properly, or afraid of disease, or I tell myself I’ll get it on the way back , or, or, or.... Instead, I well up from helplessness and try to save the overflow of emotion for the damaged-but-not-yet-dead, about-to-be -road kill: the ultimate bane of country life. With so much driving amongst copious wildlife, murder happens from the best of us. While it is amazing how many chipmunks and squirrels manage to race themselves around the obstacle course of four tires on the move, the raccoons, opossum and deer aren’t quite so gymnastic.
    BAM!

    One minute we were heading contentedly home from a summer stock play at the Sharon Playhouse, late afternoon, refraining My Fair Lady — All I want is a room somewhere, far away from the cold night air . . .—the next we faced death. A large deer tore out of the tall corn stalks lining the road on our right. Only a fraction of a second’s glimpse of brown fur in motion out of the corner of my eye preceded our plowing into it with the front end of our small Honda.
    â€œOh my God, oh my God!”
    The impact pushed us left into the oncoming traffic lane, mercifully clear of vehicles. My friend Paula gripped the steering wheel and wrestled us back into our lane, all the while shoveling that poor animal about half a mile down the road. It fell away fifty yards before we managed to stop.
    â€œOh my God, oh my God!” Paula repeated.
    â€œPaula! It’s okay. You did great. We’re all okay. Are you okay Elliot?” I’m pretty good in a crisis.
    â€œYeah. What happened?” he asked, wide-eyed.
    â€œWe hit a deer. Did you fall forward or hit your head or anything?”
    â€œNo. I mean I came forward but didn’t hit anything.”
    â€œHe came out of nowhere,” Paula moaned.
    â€œI know, I know. There’s no way you could have avoided him.”
    I looked out the back window. The deer lay still. I again checked that we were all intact and shakily exited the car. The driver behind us had already stopped where the deer was sprawled out. Please let it be dead, I silently begged, knowing a bad scene could be exponentially worse if we had to deal with a slowly dying, panicked animal. I didn’t want myself, but especially not my son to witness anything so dreadful, not yet. I instructed Paula to wait with Elliot. I jogged back meeting a man from the house across the street who had heard the collision and ran out to help.
    â€œIs it dead?”
    â€œYes. Are you all alright?” the neighbor asked.
    â€œThankfully, yes. It was pretty scary.”

    â€œThis happens all the time here. At least twice a month we hear tires squealing. I’ll call the police so they