I don't know how many animals I've run over in my driving career.
Every time I see something moving in the road I follow the same routine: slow down, try to estimate the speed and direction of movement of the small thing, attempt to anticipate what avoidance move it will make and steer my vehicle so that I miss it. Short of putting myself or other drivers in harms way, there's not much I won't do to keep from hitting an animal. But at highway speeds sometimes there's just not enough time.
When I look in my rearview mirror and see the body of an animal that I just ran over I'm not quite sure what to do. Should I stop? If it's not dead would it be better for me to put it out of it's misery? I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and hope that the small thing died quickly. And every time this has happened, I've kept driving. My reaction to these situations, more than anything, is what has convinced me that hunting is not my sport. I really don't like taking the life of a mammal, no matter how small. (I like fishing, however. I'm not sure what the difference is.)
One particular roadkill incident has stuck with me over the years. I was coming back from the New Idria mine, heading north across the valley floor towards the hills on my way back to highway 25. It was summer, after a rather wet winter, and the foxtails were high and yellow by the side of the road. I had passed a huge amount of roadkill all day, scattering crows and vultures each time with my approach. This was surprising since the road is not a high traffic route - I've driven it a number of times and rarely met more than one vehicle every half hour.
All of a sudden two squirrels cavorted into the road directly in front of me. That's the best word I can use to describe their activity - they looked like they were playing a game of tag or just engaging in general friskiness. I don't think they even knew I was there and I didn't have time to slow down. When I looked back in the rearview mirror there was one still form in the middle of the road. As I watched, the other squirrel came back and sniffed at it's fallen playmate and then they were too far behind me to see anymore. I could imagine the confusion going through the thing's tiny brain as it's mate, or buddy, all of a sudden stopped playing and lay there in the road (I know, I know, I'm anthropomorphizing).
In the general scheme of things, one less squirrel in the world doesn't amount to much. But I sure felt rotten for the rest of the day and I get sad just thinking about it.
