For every dead armadillo we see between here and New Orleans there are two, maybe three, standing behind the chain fence. They stare, claws hooked in the links, at their brothers and sisters who have been crushed by the radials of the interstate. Their bicameral brains understand some armadillos die so others may live. The survivors cogitate their own existence when they see their kin smashed. They stare through the early morning fog with topaz eyes. The images they see stay within their now wise minds. They pass on the DON’T GET RUN OVER ON INTERSTATE 59 gene to their baby armadillos. The armadillos that get run over don’t pass on anything but a death smell. Those that watch the splats in the pea soup pass on something worthwhile to their offspring — the PEARL RIVER SURVIVAL gene and that’s what it’s all about. The same goes for cats, dogs, and raccoons. I’m not sure about possums and squirrels. Even stupid fish getting ripped into the air leave behind some bright school mates and memories. Here’s Lake Pontchartrain.