“I am not eating roadkill,” Martin, my brother proclaimed.
“It wasn’t run over, just bounced off a windshield probably. And it was still warm when I found it,” I reasoned.
“You mean it’s not even your roadkill? That’s even worse. Get that thing away from me.”
I delighted in his disgust and was now taunting him with the partridge I’d picked up on the side of Route 192, inching it closer and closer to him, as if we were kids again.
Though Martin was my older brother, I was the wildly outdoorsy one. We were both in our thirty’s now, back home in Machias for Thanksgiving.
On my drive home, I spied the bird like body on the shoulder. It didn’t look smushed, but I was unsure whether to turn around and investigate. Eventually curiosity got the best of me and I pulled a U Turn on the quiet, dilapidated County road.
Sure enough, it was a partridge. It was in a good shape, well, besides being dead. It had not been runover, and was still warm, indicating it hadn’t been dead long.
I picked it up by one leg and tossed it on the backseat of my Corolla, next to Argos, my brittany, who was sleeping in his crate. Upon smelling the prized game bird we often hunt, he roused and began sniffing incessantly. I thought about what he must be thinking, “What the heck, Mom went hunting without me?!” I was amused with myself the rest of the drive home.