THERE WAS a marmot on the road one day as my son and I were driving home from town.
It lay there in a small pool of blood, it’s little buck teeth sticking out, its eyes wide open, its body crushed. I pulled over, got out, took hold of it by a hind leg, and deposited it just off the shoulder in some weeds.
“I hate it when people just leave dead animals on the road,” I explained as I got back in the truck. “Sometimes they’re there for days. There’s no dignity in being squashed by every tire that comes along.”
“Shouldn’t you use gloves for that?” was all my son said.