It’s early evening in San Angelo, and I’m driving home. Winter hasn’t taken over, so it’s still pretty light out. My husband calls me.
“I wanted to warn you,” he says. There is a hint of sadness in his voice.
“You’re going to see a dead dog on the road to the left when you turn down our street. But it’s not ours. Everyone’s okay.”
As I’m turning into our neighborhood, I can’t help but look for what he sees – and there it is. The light brown fur of a small dog. Now a sad mess on the asphalt. I sigh a breath of relief, but it still hurts.
It wasn’t my dog this time – but it could’ve been. And it was likely someone’s.
Or maybe it was a stray. I can’t decide which is more heartbreaking: the thought of a grieving family, or the loss of a life no one will remember.
This is an everyday occurrence in rural Texas.
Sometimes it’s dogs.
Sometimes it’s deer.
Sometimes it’s rodents or cats or other critters.
But every time it’s a once-living being, and I fear that fact surpasses us as we speed through the streets on our way to the next destination.
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Passing the deceased dog, I wonder – is this what we mean by roadkill? Or is that word reserved for the animals we’ve deemed unworthy of remembrance? Why do we have a word that denies such dignity to any living creature at all?
I’m not the only person to have asked these questions. Some artists have pushed back against this perspective.
Through her series At Rest photographer Emma Kisiel confronts the idea of roadkill and offers a glimpse into a possible future where humans treat all animals with dignity and respect– even on the side of the road.
In her art, she meticulously drapes flowers around the bodies of animals struck by cars, creating portraits of solemnity generally only granted to humans. Her work is undeniably moving, and it begs for a closer look at the way animals are perceived and treated in our fast-moving society.
A Brief History of Roadkill
Horses don’t run over dogs or deer, so the idea of roadkill came along with the automobile.
First written about during the early 20th Century, pioneering naturalist Joseph Grinnell noted increasing numbers of animal fatalities due to road collisions in California – all because of roads. When humans designated certain areas for cars – disorienting and fast – wildlife deaths increased dramatically.
In 1920, Grinnell wrote, “This is a relatively new source of fatality; and if one were to estimate the entire mileage of such roads in the state, the mortality must mount into the hundreds and perhaps thousands every 24 hours.”
In a disturbing irony, early roadkill documentation was used by scientists to track biodiversity loss – and now look where we are.
Today, the numbers are still incredibly high. One recent survey, conducted by conservation scientists from Aug. 1, 2024, to July 31, 2025, on two highways cutting through Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge, reported 144 different species across the route.
The federal government’s landmark study from 2008 estimated 1 to 2 million collisions with large animals each year.
In places like San Angelo, the proof is in the carnage on the asphalt.
The Language We Use
Is roadkill really the best name for it, though?
Whose death matters enough to name?
When pedestrians are struck, we don’t treat it lightly. We investigate and publish their names in the news.
Flowers go up by the roadside. To hit a human is something we avoid at all costs. But in some cases, with animals, people speed up or ignore the animal altogether. Why is that? And why can’t we show wildlife the dignity of remembering they are living beings? Remembering that in most cases it was us who invaded their ecosystems, not the other way around.
I think about the huddles of deer off College Hills near the turn where it’s clearly marked 20 miles per hour. But that rule is not always followed. And the deer are now left with fewer choices and clear paths, as construction further disorients them. Blinding lights. Loud trucks. Orange cones. Where are they supposed to go?
Furthermore, what would it look like if we built these spaces with these creatures in mind in the first place?
What Other Places Are Doing
Places like Banff National Park in Canada have been reimagining wildlife protection for decades. Home to the largest highway mitigation system in the world, Banff features 44 wildlife crossing structures designed to prevent fatal crashes and to provide safe passage for animals. These crossings prevent crashes and restore migration routes that can be crucial to wildlife survival. They have reportedly reduced wildlife-vehicle collisions by over 80%
A smaller but equally innovative example of this approach can be found in South Texas, where protecting the endangered ocelot means creating safe passage.
The Ocelot’s Road
In South Texas, fewer than 100 ocelots remain. Habitat loss and vehicle collisions pose the biggest threats to the species. Laguna Atascosa Wildlife Refuge is where many of these endangered animals go in search of a safe place to live.
Efforts to protect these rare cats started with a public cry for change. The community of Brownsville rallied and got the attention of TxDOT, who in response partnered with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to create change. This partnership led to 12 wildlife tunnels being built beneath roads near Laguna Atascosa, offering a safer way for the ocelots to travel.
In 2018, my small GulfCorps crew was a part of these efforts. Together, in partnership with American Conservation Experience, we planted more than 2,000 native trees at a former shrimp farm in Brownsville to help restore the landscape and provide cover for ocelots traveling from highway to highway.
This collaboration and community spirit is an encouraging reminder of the difference we can make when we work together.
In California, similar approaches have been taken to protect their wildlife from “roadkill” too. The Wallis Annenberg Wildlife Crossing offers a massive wildlife overpass near Los Angeles to help reconnect mountain lion habitats and reduce roadside fatalities.
Driving by that deceased dog and passing a struck dear on the highway are not disconnected for me – they both carry the same weight. The same sadness and grief for a living being that once was and now is no more. And it’s because of us.
We can’t prevent every accident or avoid every animal. But we can work toward a future where empathy comes more naturally than looking the other way. Where dignity extends to everyone, and where every life matters. After all, we all share the same world.
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