My article about a porcupine killed by a motorist struck a chord in Brazil. Cyclist Helton Moreas was moved to write and tell me about a friend, Lauro Haber, who cycled through Brazil from north to south, and who photographed this motor vehicle-killed tamandu´ mirim. Lauro has given permission for us to include his photo in our “Absent Friends” gallery.

 
The tamanduá mirim is a relative of the tamanduá bandeira, an anteater ranging from Mexico down through South America. The one Lauro photographed was quite young, and is considered rare in Brazil, possibly endangered. See the original version of Lauro’s photo at his Picasa photo gallery.

 
Thanks to Lauro for permission to reprint his photo, and thanks also to Helton for bringing it to our attention. Death is off stage for most people most of the time. We know it happens, and know it will happen to us. It’s one thing we cannot escape. But death is held at arm’s length, something we don’t like to think about or contemplate. Never more than when we drive the roads. How many animals are killed by motorized vehicles? Too many. It’s time we stopped and looked. These animals who have died needlessly and they deserve a memorial. They deserve to be remembered.

 
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The Expert scarcely paused. He looked at his watch. Then he grinned at his companion. Their hurried approach had sent a flock of finches exploding into the air. Neither man noticed. The Expert’s eyes flicked briefly over the old pine. He didn’t see the squirrel in the pool of shade at his feet. He didn’t see the chipmunk on the branch above his head. He saw only twisted limbs and brown needles. He turned back to his companion. “What good is a dead tree?” the Expert joked. Both men laughed. It was a rhetorical question. “Just go in there and rip it out,” the Expert said. “Put in something pretty.” His companion nodded. They moved on.

“What good is a dead tree?” The Expert was sure he knew the answer. He was wrong, of course. A pair of young jays tried to set him straight. But the Expert wasn’t in a listening mood. He sprinted away, his chubby companion struggling to keep up. Time is money, after all. And Experts don’t come cheap.

 
How true. Now here’s another way to count the cost:

 
These jays are siblings. They’re sheltering in the dying pines on a chilly day, soaking up the sun while avoiding the wind. They’re joined by a warbler:

 
I think he’s a Nashville warbler in transition to fall plumage, but can’t be sure. No matter, he’s hunting insects among the branches of the pine, and he’s finding them. The jays and warblers are only a few of the birds who frequent the pines. Here are others:

 
Red-breasted and white-breasted nuthatches, hairy and downy woodpeckers, rose-breasted and pine grosbeaks, black capped chickadees, common redpolls, and yellow-bellied sapsuckers are only a sampling of the regular visitors to the dying pines. This chipmunk enjoys climbing to the tops of the trees:

 
He’s filled his cheeks and needs a bath, and the branches provide a safe, convenient spot to enjoy a few moments while washing up. This red squirrel spends time in the tree, as well:

 
He mines the cones for food. Someone else who takes sustenance from the pines is this shrew:

 
Normally he lives below ground, but comes up to drink at a water dish before returning to his subterranean duties.

 
Why do all these birds and animals come to the dead tree? For shelter, to hunt for insects on and in the tree, to eat food brought from somewhere else, and to escape from predators. Other animals (like the shrew) and insects (like millipedes) patrol the root systems and break down dead organic material, which in turn helps rejuvenate the soil.

 
If left alone, dead trees continue to provide life. Insects are attracted to the tree, and these draw the birds. Animals make nests inside woodpecker holes, and weave nests among the tree’s limbs. When the tree finally falls and rots, it returns its vital nutrients to the soil and often sprouts saplings from its roots. If the tree falls into water—in a wetland, say—it provides a different kind of shelter, this time for turtles, frogs, and other aquatic animals. As it breaks down, its nutrients are consumed by even smaller organisms and finally redistributed to the earth.

 
So you see, a dead tree isn’t dead at all. In the midst of death we are in life. Remember that the next time you look at a dying tree and are moved to ask, “What good is a dead tree?”

 
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Don’t turn away from the awful scene. Take a moment to reflect. To think about the life that was. It’s only right.

 
This porcupine died the day before I came by on my bike. Porcupines are docile beasts. They feel safe inside their coat of sharp quills. And they cannot move quickly enough to get out of the way. Their quills will do nothing to fend off tons off metal, glass, and rubber. This porky died hard. His back leg was snapped, he had internal injuries. Bits of his flesh and guts were ground into the pavement. Did he die before the vultures came to eat his entrails and remove his face? I sure hope his death was swift so he didn’t see the beaks coming at him or feel those first hunks of flesh and viscera being ripped out.

 
A cloud of flies lifted away, but only for a moment. They’re doing well.

 
The porcupine will never again bask on a cool morning as the warm sun burns fog off the fragrant fields and generous woodlands.

 
Never again will he pad along in his solitary, deliberate way on leathery feet with strong toes.

 
Gone forever. What does it matter? It matters to me. I hope it matters to you. After all, it could be someone you care about. Or it could be you.

 
Death is off stage for most people most of the time. We know it happens, and know it will happen to us. It’s one thing we cannot escape. But death is held at arm’s length, something we don’t like to think about or contemplate. Never more than when we drive the roads. How many animals do we kill when we drive? How many animals have you struck? Even the most careful driver is to blame for the deaths of living beings, from insects (who cares about those?) and frogs, to birds and mammals. How many do we unwittingly kill? I don’t know the answer to that question, but when I’m riding my bike I sure do see a depressing number of dead animals on the roads, and in many ways worse, I see maimed animals like turtles who are barely alive and suffering agonizing pain trapped inside smashed shells. I do what I can for the ones I find healthy and alive—I take them to the roadside, safe, I hope. I do what I can for those I find who are injured. Most I find are dead already.

It’s terribly sad to see their corpses. And I thought it was about time that people came face-to-face with the slaughter, that people step out from the climate-controlled vehicles that cause the unnecessary deaths. I’m not ghoulish. I don’t like shooting photos of these animals who are the relatives of the ones I have come to know. But I shouldn’t be one of the few who notice them, to see the gruesome bodies—or what’s left of them—and I shouldn’t be alone in smelling them. You don’t smell them as you drive past the flesh and bones at high speeds with the windows closed tight, the music blaring, and the air conditioner in full blow. I want everyone to see, to see the horrible wreckage that’s taken on an innocent population. It may make no difference to show these photos. You certainly can’t hear the flies buzzing nor can you smell the sweet, stomach-turning rot. These animals who have died doing nothing more than go about their business deserve a memorial. They deserve to be remembered. So before I take them to the side of the road among the colorful flowers and tall grasses, I’ll memorialize them with my camera. Someone should. For the living, the survivors.

 
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