A deer, specifically whitetail. I had to look up the Latin as well.
Call from an engineer on Sunday stating that he sees a dead deer in my usual parking space at the office.
I say, “Drag it out to the curb. The city will see it and haul it off. They’re pretty good about that, but they won’t grab it off our property.”
He says, “I’m not touchin’ that thing!” This, coming from a perfectly capable 40+ year old human male…
I say, “If you don’t grab it now, the coyotes will get into it tonight and there will be a mess tomorrow morning.”
My employee (who is, again, a 40+ year old perfectly capable human male) says, “If you want to drag it to the curb, you drive over here and do it. I’m not touching that thing! It probably has some disease!”
I retort, “Listen dude, I can’t make you do this, but I’m telling you, nothing is wrong with that animal other than it got hit by a truck and wandered into our parking lot to die. If you are that worried about it, wear a pair of gloves.”
His final, “I ain’t touchin’ it…”
So I arrive around 06:00 and see the above. Chewed all to hell and back by the local, suburban coyotes. Nice. So here’s yours truly in a suit, tie, and annoying dress shoes dragging a fracking half eaten doe out to the curb. Bloody hell. Nice way to start a week.
So, why do I tell you, dear readers, this sordid tale?
Simple. It is a glaring indictment of the state of the modern American male.