Suicidal wildlife

The doe eyed the passing traffic warily as it delicately tongued the newly sprouted leaves into her mouth, delicately stripping the low-growing branch. A large dead buck laid nearby, on the side of the divided highway, semi-dried ropes of intestines sprouting from its ruptured abdomen. Connecticut Route 15 is known as both the Merritt Parkway and as the Wilbur Cross Parkway, depending on where you are. I had entered the road at I-91 but hadn’t yet reached the tunnel at New Haven, so I was still on the Wilber Cross when I saw them, the bodies spread out over a stretch of about 15 miles. These were the fourth and fifth deer that I had seen since the interchange from I-91, but the first live one, still seemingly pausing for a snack before leaping to its doom. Maybe, on this day anyway, it wouldn’t jump. Did the doe have a fawn lying in the grass, nearby? If it did, I didn’t see it. There was still one more deer carcass next to the road, a few miles before I reached the tunnel, then, much to my surprise, no more. 

Why so many suicidal deer along such a short stretch of highway, I don’t know. It was early morning and I had to get to Philadelphia by noon. I drove carefully, uncertain if other wildlife might attack my car as it sped down the road. 

 Why was I driving to Philadelphia? That's another story. For this episode, suffice to say that I reached my destination and returned, later that night, physically unscathed. No animals were injured in the process.