All the things you might or not say about roadkill

A man who may or may not be the author displays what may or may not be a rattlesnake hide. COURTESY PHOTO

If you have to blame anybody, blame my great-grandfather, a New York taxidermist who may or may not have stuffed a bear shot by Teddy Roosevelt that may or may not be in the vast archive vaults of the Field Museum in Chicago.

I can’t verify the last part of that statement because he died long before I was born, and you know how family legends are. But I am certain that he was a taxidermist, as evidenced by the old manuals and pamphlets that ended up on my dad’s workbench, along with that cigar box filled with mounted animal wonders, like those glass eyes that never found their way into a trophy fish or fox.

And then there was the testimony of my grandmother—his daughter—who grew up in a house with a basement full of dead raccoons, coyotes and bears (oh my!) that came to life each night to stalk her in her dreams.

So if you have to blame anybody, blame great-grandpa for my affinity for roadkill.

Oh, it’s not something I’m proud of. It’s just that over the years, dead critters and I have often crossed paths, and I guess you could say that I took the path less traveled by most people. I’m not fervid enough to actually kill them, but I’m avid enough to collect them here and there after they’ve met an unfortunate fate.

Like that bleached raccoon skull I found along an Illinois creek bed behind the farmhouse of my dad’s friends, Vick and Elaine. I was eight or 10 years old, hunting treasure to bring home. I still have it.

Or those pocket gopher pelts I brought back from my Uncle John’s house in Bemidji, Minnesota, when I was 12. My cousin Danny trapped the nuisance pests and turned in their claws for bounty. He had no use for the rest of the beasts, so I skinned them and hung their tanned hides on my bedroom wall.

It’s an affinity I never outgrew.

Of course, it’s not always legal to be in possession of an animal’s remains without a permit of some sort, whether you found it innocently or not. Elephant ivory, for example, which is why I observe a strict policy of driving respectfully past any Ford-flattened pachyderms I might find along the Tamiami Trail—especially if hundreds of potential witnesses mill about the carcass. It’s important to have principles.

But because I’m not an expert in laws regarding every other dead animal I might meet, I may or may not have broken a few rules over the years.

Like that freshly killed mink I found years ago in Schaumburg, a suburb of Chicago. It lay at the edge of the street next to the bridge over the creek, a beautiful, healthy animal that had crossed paths with a vehicle just the night before. It was sad to think that it would only end up a flattened, hairy mass at the side of the road, so I may or may not have taken it home, skinned it and tanned its hide.

Or that moose molar that I may or may not have pried with a knife from the jaw of a bear-killed moose in Canada’s Quetico Provincial Park while on a wilderness canoe trip long ago. It was summer, when any part of a moose was surely out of season.

Or that giant snapping turtle that survived a Florida gator attack and ended up with a snapped-off tooth healed into its shell. It may or may not be sitting on a shelf in my home.

Or the fox snake, coral snake and diamondback rattler that I may or may not have skinned and preserved after finding them dead on my country road bike rides into the Everglades east of Naples.

I’m not sure if it’s legal to be in possession of any of these things that I may or may not be in possession of. It’s just that I have this affinity for hapless animals whose lives have been cut tragically short, and I want to honor their beauty that will only go to waste if they aren’t saved somehow. As I said at the outset, I often take the path less traveled. I blame my taxidermist great-grandfather, who may or may not have stuffed that bear for Roosevelt.

If you’re reading this while having supper or snacking, I hope this flat-fauna catalog isn’t putting you off your feed. If so, I’m sorry.

But while we’re on the subject of supper, I have to admit that it’s hard to say goodbye to the rest of that pummeled protein lying so fresh and warm at the side of the road. So maybe I should start brainstorming rolledover recipes—Pesto Possum? Asiago Armadillo? Cat Cacciatore? I’m not sure if it’s legal, but my next Naples roadside rendezvous might or might not get wrapped in aluminum foil with some onion and peppers, plopped onto the engine block, and be ready to eat by the time I hit Fort Myers.

And depending on how that might or might not turn out, I might or might not someday publish a Roadkill Recipe Book— the only cookbook that might or might not be endorsed by Triple A. I’ll keep you posted. Maybe.

TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com .

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