This week we drove South and over to the other coast. This is not the California left coast. This is the wild Italian East Coast. The Ozarks of the Mediterranean. Nevertheless, we packed pajamas and everything.
Out there on the back asphalts we saw something we don’t see near Rome – road kill. One was a dog or a wolf and one was a definitely a raccoon. He wore a mask.
The first was a dog. M. thought it could have been a wolf, but I think she was mistaken, storying herself – making it into something beyond the usual. It was a dead dog. Maybe hit by a car, maybe old age got him, perhaps bad cooking. I couldn’t tell from the expression on his face.
Near Rome there are no animals on the side of the road – dead or alive. Not alive, cause they know better; and not dead, cause they aren’t going to go to waste and lie there when they can be eaten right away or hidden and eater later.
I heard there were groundhogs in Italy sometime, long ago, until some soul tested one and decided that all it needed was a little salt.