As nearly everyone began to head out the door and back down to Ventura, it was deduced that due to some bad timing and forgetfulness, *somebody* had left a frozen calf in the thaw box last week. Last week as in seven, 90+ degree days ago. Geoff: "Devon, you and Angela can deal with it later. You guys will have the truck." Thanks Geoff. Thanks a lot. And then they left.
Devon and I wanted to get it over with quickly. We grabbed our carcass gloves and hopped in the (brand new) truck and drove down the road to the thaw box. Stepping out of the car, the sound of flies and the smell of rotting meat were like a smack in the face, and that from several feet away. As we got closer, we could see a dark liquid dripping from underneath the closed door of the wooden box. Oh. Lovely. A lot of faces were made. Devon and I went to either side of the box to each undo one of the bolts and then let the door drop. I tried to breathe through my mouth but forgot and in one instant smelled the worst smell I've ever smelled. Once, on a trip to the Huntington Library and Gardens, I saw a flower they had on special exhibit there known as a "corpse flower"--named for its distinct odor: that of rotting flesh. And I remember thinking at the time that how would I know what it did or did not smell like, having never smelled a rotting corpse.
Corpse flower (Amorphophallus titanum)
Well, now I am all too familiar with said smell. There was a fleeting instant in which I could feel my lunch attempting a jailbreak but I tamped it down. Breathed through my mouth. Barely breathed at all. The visual was not much prettier than the stench: a furry lump that was once a rabbit was half-submerged in the pool of viscous red-brown liquid toward the front of the box; a black plastic garbage bag containing a deflated mass practically floated toward the back. The liquid itself was roiling with maggots. There was no way we were getting this in the truck bed. It seemed a shame to drench the brand new truck in gut-churning viscera, and anyways, we didn't even have a lift gate. For the two of us to lift this mess--tall as the truck is, short as we are, and liquid as the calf was--would have meant for a much messier job than either Devon or I was prepared to handle.
"Let's just toss the rabbit into the bushes," Devon suggested, and I agreed. We each grabbed a leg, and were walking over to the bushes when the skin slipped off and the rabbit fell. We both leapt out of the way like the thing was cursed. Or more to get out of the splash zone. That task accomplished, we debated what to do with the calf. Bury it? We gave shovels a try but it quickly became apparent that digging a hole would require far more time and effort than we were willing to devote. In the end, we dragged it off into the bushes, covered it with some dirt and long grass, and left it. That smell, however, stayed with me, lingering in my nostrils for the rest of the day, tinging everything I ate or drank with the faint smell of rotten meat. This is how it works: you eat before, not after dealing with the dead stuff. I learned that lesson the hard way on night one, when, after returning to the ranch house from a feeding site, everything I ate tasted a little like defrosted bear.
I feel you, Ludo from the 80's movie masterpiece, "Labyrinth."
No comments:
Post a Comment