by Rusty W. Mitchum
I wonder if other families play travelin’ games while travelin’. You know, like seein’ who can spot the most out of state license plates, or do the ABC’s by findin’ the letters off of road signs, or my favorite, countin’ road kill. What? You’ve never counted road kill? Well, I’ll explain how it works.
With a pad and pencil, you each keep score of all the road killed animals you see while you’re on a trip. Write down snakes, armadillos, skunks, possums, etc. There are a few that will be unrecognizable; designate these G.S. for “Greasy Spot,” UFO for “Unidentified Flat Object,” and G&F for “Guts and Fur.” The person with the most entries on their pad at the end of the trip is the winner. Kids love this game. Moms are not real fond of it, though.
Road killed animals were a great source of entertainment back when I was a kid. My cousin Coy and I would make frequent trips up to the highway to check out any new arrivals. There were even some you could take home with you, like toad-frogs. When a toad-frog got hit, they would flatten out real nice like and dry quickly. These stacked pretty good, too. We called them toad jerky. Believe me, moms are not as thrilled by a collection of these as you might think.
Anywho, one day Coy and I were makin’ our rounds when we came upon a rather large raccoon. “Ooooo, look,” said Coy. “A coon.” “Yeah,” I replied. “Looks fresh, too.” I felt of it. “Yep, he’s done cooled off, but he ain’t too stiff. And looky here,” I said as I lifted it. “He ain’t stuck to the road.”
“What do you think we ought to do with him?” asked Coy. “Hmmm,” I pondered. “I know, let’s make a coonskin cap, just like Davy Crockett’s.” “Ooooo, yeah. That’ll be neat.” We took turns carryin’ the little bear because he probably weighed half as much as we did. We carried it to Coy’s fallout shelter, A.K.A. our clubhouse.
“What do we do now?” asked Coy. “Skin him.” “You ever skint anything before?” “Nope,” I replied. “But it couldn’t be that hard. Go get a knife.” “Ok.” Coy ran up to his house and back in no time with a big butcher knife. “Ooooo,” I oooooed. “That ought to do the trick.” “Yeah,” said Coy. “Just don’t let me forget to wipe it off after we’re through. Mom will probably use it tonight.”
Skinnin’ the varmint turned out to be a little more difficult than we imagined. Coy held the coon by the hind legs and I’d cut awhile, then we’d switch places. By the time we finished, we had a coon hide with three legs, one ear, and about fourteen air holes.
“Well,” I said. “It’s not too bad.” “Yeah,” said Coy. “Has your hand stopped bleedin’?”“Just about,” I replied. “How about yours?” “Yep. Now what?” “Well, let’s see here. I know! Wait
here.” I ran home and came back with a hand full of safety pins. “Okay. Now, put the skin on your head and I’ll pin it up.” Coy draped the coonskin over his head. “Boy,” he said. This thing sure is greasy.” I started pinnin’. Pushin’ a safety pin through a hide is not as easy as it sounds. Especially if there’s a person on the other side yellin’.”
“There,” I said. “Finished.” “Thank goodness,” said Coy. “How’s it look?” “Well, not bad I guess. Here, let me try it on.” When Coy pulled it off, it sounded like somebody pullin’ their foot out of the mud. I put it on. “Well, what do you think?” “Hmmmm,” said Coy. “Is his foot supposed to be in his mouth?” “That’s the only thing I could find to connect it to,” I said. “You know, it don’t smell as bad as it did when we first found it. Come on! Let’s go show Mom.” We lit out for my house.
“Okay,” I said as we arrived. “Coy, you go in first, and give me an introduction.” “Got’cha,” he said and went into the house. There in the den were Mom, Dad, and my sister Teri. “Why, hello Coy,” said Mom. “What on earth happened to your hair? It’s all plastered down.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “And what is that smell?” “I don’t know,” said Coy. “But listen. I want to introduce you to the next Davy Crockett.” With that, I jumped into the den.“Tah dah!” I exclaimed. “Ugh,” gagged my sister.
“Oh Rusty,” said my mom. My dad just looked at me and shook his head. They were all holdin’ their noses.
After that, Coy was sent home, I was hosed down out in the yard, and our coonskin cap became a chew toy for my dog, Sarge. Coy got somewhat the same treatment when he got home, and his mom threw away the butcher knife. Later, Coy asked me, “What did we do wrong?” “Don’t ask me,” I replied. “But I do know one thing. I ain’t gonna try that again. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Hey! Guess what?” I asked. “I saw a dead cat up on the road awhile ago. Do you think we can stuff it?” “Ooooo, yeah,” said Coy. What was that I said about lessons learned?
