The other day I was returning from an interview in Lyman when I happened upon a peculiar scene. Now, I know road kill is a common sight in a place such as Maine – and anywhere for that matter as a 2005 study done by High Country News (a wildlife magazine that primarily focuses on the western states of America) revealed that more than one million animals lose their lives every day while trying to get to the other side of the road (that’s roughly 11.3 animals per second) – but this scene had me turning down the tunes and pulling off the road.
    A few other automobiles lined the side of the road and two men were outside of their cars, approaching the injured animal. From my car I couldn’t readily identify the dark heap in the road, but it was big and it was surrounded by feathers. A man with a mustache approached the animal with caution, nearly tiptoeing toward it. I rolled down my window.
    “Hey what is that, what is going on, what happened?” I blurted.
    “I hit it, think I may have broken its legs,” the mustached man replied.
    At this the animal gave a shudder and poked its previously-hidden head up. It was a large tom turkey. Its wrinkled head was a fuming, bright red. The skin of a turkey’s head will change color as an indicator of stress, excitement, etc. much like the crest of a cardinal or the hair on the back of a dog’s neck. It must have weighed a good 30 pounds.
    “Won’t move,” he said.
    “What are you going to do?” I asked, eyeing the other onlookers who sat in their cars.
    It was a strange scene. The question hung in the air. What would happen to this poor old bird, now that he couldn’t walk? And better yet, whose roadside jurisdiction was he under?
    A man, stumbling out of the woods with a birch branch the size of my leg, put the question to rest. He took a drag from a cigarette and hoisted the stick over his shoulder, sidling up to the tar. People looked at him, he was the action man, the protagonist. He wore a Mighty Ducks hockey sweatshirt and also had a mustache.
    “What do you think I am gonna do?” he asked me.
    This scenario occurs all the time, all across the globe, where people must make a decision about the future of an injured animal. You take owls to the Audubon, you take pets to the veterinarian, but what do you do about deer or turkeys? What do you do about animals that can be eaten? The simple answer is, you do what needs to be done.
    In a bit of bad luck for these would-be dinners it seems as though human beings have taken away any sort of right to treatment they may have. My mom hit a fawn with her Volvo and watched as it struggled to get up. A police car rolled onto the scene and in the haze of her headlights the young deer became pistol-fodder, forever relocated to the annals of history.
    If that deer were a puppy the officer would most likely have wrapped it in a blanket and brought it to the veterinarian to have it looked at. He would have coddled the whimpering animal. But in the wild, they say, these things happen.
    I was also witness to the roadside gutting of a deer that had been hit by a truck. The gentlemen sliced the animal down the middle and pulled its steaming entrails onto the tar. Whether the deer had a fighting chance I do not know, I am only highlighting how these accident victims became motivated opportunists, turning a horrible situation into several free dinners. This is Maine.
    It is too bad we couldn’t have this same approach to all animals that die in the road. Why don’t I see more people skinning raccoons on the side of the road, or pulling at the quills of smashed porcupines? The Native Americans supposedly used every part of the animals they killed. It is a shame we can’t make more use of the thousands of deceased vertebrates lining our roadways. The rule stands, if it can’t be eaten, isn’t endangered or isn’t loved; let it rot.
    So back to my story. The man with the stick was just about to follow through with his plans.
    “You might not wanna watch this,” he said to me and to everyone. Somewhere in the prior expired minutes he had delegated himself executioner and his voice held on to that authority. He had everything under control.
    The bird, however, didn’t yet have an understanding of its role. Upon hearing the Ducks fan speak, the turkey turned its head. What it saw, I assume, was impending doom. It saw the stick.
    The turkey leapt up on its previously “broken” legs and began flapping its wings. The man in the road made a grab at it, but to no avail, and within seconds it was leaving the ground, escaping the end.
    The man with the stick looked disappointed. People laughed in their cars, and everyone went their separate ways.
    What these two men were aiming to accomplish embodies the spirit of the Thanksgiving season that has recently passed us. They are problem solvers, people of action. I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do, but they diagnosed and treated the situation  with a marked efficiency that many Mainers seem to posses. So while many animals die needlessly and tragically by the wayside, there are those that know what to do with the deceased and the nearly deceased.
    The pilgrims were brave people of action and the people they encountered on the shores of America were equally as brave, providing food for a host of beings that they had never before seen the likes of. Thanksgiving is a celebration not only of bounty and family, but also of overcoming differences. This kind of action takes guts.
    Maine’s economy is fueled by an iron working class made up of people like the mustache guys, who get the job done directly, without frivolity. We are lucky to live in a land where hard work can still feed a family, and people that turn bad situations into good ones aren’t hard to come by. So I applaud you, mustache guys and roadside butchers, for dealing with the world directly, sorry your bird got away.