THE SEVENTIETH PAGE

I felt like the Boy Scout I never was.

My practiced eye could spot a carton-sized deceased beast from yards away. I’d throw on the brake, don my industrial strength rubber gloves, seize the animal and toss into a U.S. postal service box of corrugated plastic, which I kept in the back of the Toyota for just these purposes.

Condition and variety were my criteria.

Condition, condition, condition--in bodies as in books. It was preferable that the animal (or avian) to have been knocked dead sideways rather than damaged under wheels; I didn’t want seepage to betray the contents of my club selections. Plastic wrapping was not desirable because it might have held back the stench which should come out in full force upon opening the carton. Death by old age or disease was best for presentation.

Probably no one appreciated the subtlety of my selections, but I did try to make them as interesting as possible. A different kind of natural product entered the mails each week. No two squirrels could be sent in succeeding weeks. The order was boy, girl, boy, girl; you may or may not call me sexist. The female selections were usually birds; males received animals. There is a delicateness in birds that the animals can’t provide with their greater bulk and, thus, superior potential for first-class rot.