I'm back at Kiko's House after a sojourn to the mountains to hang out at the Dear Friend & Conscience's (DG&G) pad while she's traveling.
It's about 220 miles roundtrip to her place and back. It's also deer season, which is to say the males of two species are in rut: the white-tailed deer and its camouflaged, rifle toting human pursuer.
I've gotten into the habit of counting roadkill when I travel during rutting/hunting season. The number of dead deer -- including a fair number of Bambis who were trying to stay close to their mamas -- never ceases to amaze me. The count this trip was 22, about two thirds of them splattered on a turnpike with narrow shoulders. Definitely an invitation for the poor dears to become disoriented and panic. Which they usually do.
If you extrapolate out my count of 22 roadkill in a short trip over a short weekend, the number nationally must run into the hundreds of thousands.
The point of all this?
Uh . . . drive carefully.