For years, I have stopped to lift dead animals from roads. I cannot bear to leave them—the endless rush of cars, further assaulting their bodies, feels too cruel. I have a practice of creating memorials for them, usually in the grassy median of the highway, under a tree, or in my backyard.
My intention is to notice and give attention, to honor and see the animals as individuals. I want to acknowledge the lives they had and lost. Too often humans treat dead animals as objects, as “roadkill.” But they are beings who share the world with us. They deserve our care, even in death. In honoring the dead, I also seek to honor the living species, providing safer places for the vultures, foxes, opossums, and others who feed on carrion and sustain themselves on the deaths of others.
Fawn
I found the tiny fawn in the rain, on the edge of a Louisiana backroad. Her delicate legs couldn’t carry her fast enough. I wonder if her mother waited on the other side, and then knew she needn’t wait. This baby’s not on the road anymore. Her mother is gone, but she’s held in beauty and grace, now for us all to see.
Osprey
I lifted the osprey from the asphalt, wrapped her in a blanket, and carried her to my house. I wanted to cover her with wildflowers, honor her, bow to her, even on the ground. A fox in the night carried her body away. I am grateful for the cycles and circles of life and death all around me, around us, always. I wish roads weren’t always breaking the circle.
Snapping Turtle
She was on the edge of a five-lane road, far from any creeks or ponds. I wondered if she’d been roaming to lay eggs. Her feet and tail were perfect, no cracks in her shell. Just a terrible wound to her head. I grabbed a blanket and laid her on the backseat. I wanted to take her to flowers and water. I drove a bit before I looked back to see her legs moving. She was alive! It seemed impossible, she’d suffered so much trauma. I took her to my home and placed her in a pool of water, watching the blood wash away. By morning, she was completely still.
Coyote
The coyote had no visible injuries or blood. No clear sign of trauma. Just a lovely being in perfect form, radiating light and life, even from stillness. This was the third coyote I found on the same stretch of highway in one week. The animals know the four lanes are impossible. Yet, they risk it anyway. They have places to go, their routes, the pathways they must follow every year. I couldn’t gather enough flowers for her. I kept finding more and more, wanting to cover her body completely.
Owl
At first, I saw only a wisp of feathers. A vulture, I thought, tapping the brakes as I looked for a place to turn around. But there was too much color. Maybe a hawk. I pulled to the side and inched closer. Then I saw her wings and her talons. A barred owl! Like finding a fairy or an envoy from another realm, a master of flight. Grounded. I scooped the owl up with a rush that made no sense. She felt made of light. Like air. She glowed, even in death.
Fox
I found the fox on the side of a four-lane highway near a high school, a grocery store, a gas station, a furniture store, restaurants, and a park. She was on the edge of the park. I wonder if she had ventured everywhere, like foxes do, foraging for what she could, making her way through our sprawl, so smart and resilient. Was she returning to the one safe haven she had in the middle of it all?
Roadrunner
This roadrunner was on the side of a twisting canyon road at sunset. I placed around him the flowers of the Texas Hill Country: bluebonnets, bright yellow huisache daisies, white lazy daisies, crimson castillejas, pink primroses, purple verbena. I held him for the longest time, touching his soft down, gazing at the glisten in his eyes, noticing his tail feathers, ever arched and up, his feet somehow still running.
Deer
I know I take risks when I stop. She was in the middle of a four-lane highway. Usually, I stop only for ones on the side. Usually, the ones in the middle are impossible anyway, their precious bodies destroyed or unliftable. I waited for a break and ran to her. She was as big as I, heavier. I was able to drag her, but only slowly. As more cars approached, I raced again to the side, without her. The second time I pulled her all the way to soft grass. I had flowers in my car. The white to cover her delicate face, the yellow for her broken legs.
Vulture
I watched car after car drive over this vulture. Each pass, a new assault. A lifeless body crushed again and again, tossed up, made to roll. Like a piece of trash. They are called gallinazos in Spanish, meaning big chickens. But vultures are raptors. Even more, they are caretakers of the dead. They connect worlds, life after death, growth from decay.
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Memorial making is a time-honored practice. I was inspired by the late naturalist author Barry Lopez, who writes about his anguish in finding so much animal death on roads in his essay “Apologia” (later released as a beautiful book with woodcut art by Robin Eschner). On a journey across North America, he stopped for countless animals, removing their bodies from the asphalt and lamenting the brutalities of the modern world. He writes, “The raccoons and, later, a red fox carry like sacks of wet gravel and sand. Each animal is like a solitary child’s shoe in the road.” His words of compassion and care are at the heart of every memorial I’ve created. I have since learned of dozens of artists and activists all over the world who do this practice without fanfare or show, simply to honor and show respect for the animals.
Through these memorials, I share photographs of the animals and write short narratives about each online and in print. I write of how I found them, how I felt in their presence, the details of their forms, and any life history or life story I can read from their remains. My writing is intentionally emotional so readers can feel what other kinds of scientific writing can sometimes cover over. Conservation scientists write about populations or species in decline. I write so people may see, feel, and care for animals as individual beings. I write about how the manner of their dying tells me more about my human community and how it ignores deaths of animals perceived as not “owned,” not “pets” or kin.
My hope is that readers may see, care, and even dare to look closely and be reminded of the bonds we share with the nonhuman world.
In these photographs, I frame the animals to show elegance and beauty, even in still bodies—to show life rather than death. I want to make visible the ribbons of a snake, the wisps of fur on the belly of an armadillo, the sentient light in the eyes of a snapping turtle, the gradations of black and gray on the vulture, the gentle, soft face of a porcupine. Without the photos, without the circles of berries, flowers, and leaves that adorn their broken bodies, some humans may never look at a dead animal. They may never see.
I photograph the animals not to sensationalize but, rather the opposite, to normalize death. Besides the realms of medicine, hospice, mortuary, art, or poetry, it seems so many people are sheltered from and resistant to the idea of death. I understand why. But it’s odd, too. Humans are surrounded by death. If we are paying attention, we will see death everywhere, right next to life—decay giving way to growth, deceased bodies sustaining and nourishing vital ones.
Nutria
If you look up the animal “nutria,” you’ll find nothing good. You’ll see “invasive,” “swamp rat,” “destructive,” and “as bad for California as wildfires.” I am not supposed to care about nutria. My friends in conservation would explain that we need to eradicate all of them, including this one. I understand. The thing is, I also care about nutria. This one. I found him on a road in rural Pennsylvania. It was raining, and I was glad I could move his body to the soft grass.
Mouse
I found the mouse nestled among the leaves near our campsite in New Hampshire. So tiny and still, so easy to miss, only the white of her belly showing. I gasped mid-step, so surprised to see her. Did she fall? But from where? Had she been carried by an owl and dropped? Her fur was soaking from the rain. I wanted to dry her. I was grateful for the flowers nearby, tiny and delicate as her ears. A blush of pink.
Kingsnake
This spiral beauty is a Prairie Kingsnake. I found this one on a wide-open Texas road with four lanes, cars and trucks barreling through the countryside at 75 mph. The snake never had a chance. Feared because they are misunderstood, drivers often go out of their way to hit them. I looked up the species and learned the conservation status of Prairie Kingsnake is “Least Concern.” No. They may be common, “just another snake on the road,” but they and their kin are my greatest concern.
Rabbit
Rabbits are my favorite. That’s not entirely true. Every animal is my favorite. But rabbits stop me. Like when I hear a favorite song and want everything in that moment to be about the song. Maybe it’s the fairytale they bring, all the whimsy and sweetness and grace. I found this baby in my yard in Texas. No visible wounds or marks. Now surrounded by beauty of a too-brief life in spring.
Squirrel
The squirrel was in the middle of the road, his body straddling the yellow line. It saddens me to see them hit by cars, left there like a scrap of metal. I found him in the prettiest neighborhood—clean-swept sidewalks lined with flowers and yucca plants and oak trees, bungalows painted in blues and purples and yellows, signs of love and peace and tolerance, people walking their dogs and laughing with their kids, everyone turning their faces to the warm November sun. Why don’t they see the squirrel?
Skunk
I found the skunk on a quiet suburban street, her body slumped against a curb. Her last moment was crossing between the tree-lined sidewalks of an elementary school. The beauty of these memorials is in the animal. Offering her a place to rest that reflects her life, where she belonged (not the curb), the flowers and leaves and grasses she knew. That’s the beauty. It’s all her.
Coachwhip
This was the third snake I found in one stretch of road. It’s a stretch only meters long, but it connects two rich patches of forest and savannah in an otherwise developed neighborhood of humans. I know there’s no such thing as a migratory corridor for snakes. But maybe this is a spot where snakes linger on the road, to bask. Or maybe they just slow on the cooling pavement at dusk, staying tragically too long before the next car comes. I could imagine a sign here. “Snake crossing.” I would add: “Go slowly. Drive carefully. Be sensitive, please.” But I fear any sign would only make things worse. Snakes are so misunderstood, so maligned. Would people go out of their way to hit them?
Opossum
The opossum seemed so little. Maybe she was born in the summer, and maybe she was just learning to venture out on her own. Opossums live short lives. Only a few years, if they are lucky. If they can avoid the roads. I found her on a quiet lane, so close to my house. It wasn’t quiet enough, not for a young soul who was just learning. I couldn’t let it be her final resting spot. I lifted her with love and a towel and brought her to my yard.
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Of course, animals die for all kinds of reasons unrelated to humans. They die of diseases, injuries, old age, and accidents. They die simply by interacting with other species and with other members of their own species. They become prey, succumb to battles of dominance, or lose fights over territory. But in these memorials, I ask viewers to see the highly unequal relationship between humans and other animals, to see how animals can become collateral damage in the development of human infrastructure. Humans in the global north tend to live their lives with themselves at the center, barely noticing the lives of others, barely caring about their deaths. I ask us to acknowledge human dominance by seeing the harms caused by roads. I ask us to pause, look, and apologize—for all the ways humans have disrupted and destroyed animals’ homes, nurseries, pathways, waterways, playgrounds, and hiding places.
In honoring the dead, I also seek to honor the living species.
Humans build worlds on top of animal worlds. Strip malls, gas stations, parking lots, duplexes, and high-rises disrupt their worlds and replace animal spaces. Roads dissect what was whole and connected in animal lives—their dwellings that had meaning and purpose. Buildings interrupt their flyways with glass that looks like sky. Waterworks—all the digging, drilling, damming, piping, containing, restricting, channeling, and re-channeling—cause water depletion, forcing animals to move in search of other sources, crossing yet more roads.
“I’m sorry” is what I say to each animal. I take the liberty of saying it on behalf of humankind, for cruelties and harms, intentional or not, and indifferences. My hope is that readers may see, care, and even dare to look closely and be reminded of the bonds we share with the nonhuman world. My hope is that in remembering these connections, we may blend ourselves with animals again, us with them.
Featured image: A snapping turtle found on the edge of a five-lane road and memorialized in the author’s backyard. Photo by author, 2021.
All photos taken by author in 2020 and 2021.
Amanda Stronza is an anthropologist and professor in Ecology and Conservation Biology at Texas A&M University. Her research and advocacy focus on community-based approaches to conservation. In 2013, she co-founded Ecoexist, an NGO in Botswana aimed at fostering coexistence between people and elephants. Since 1993, her work in the Amazon has documented and supported Indigenous stewardship of wildlife. Her latest projects are about human-predator interactions in the Kalahari, and human–macaque relations in Nepal. More of Amanda’s animal memorials can be found on her Instagram. Website. Contact.
