It was a day much like this. January, so at least thirty five degrees cooler, but still freakishly warm for the season. Bright and dry yet with a crackling humidity. The ground was thawing and everything smelled dirty wet. I was in sandals near the Bison statue. By the creek a few fly lava were buzzing, doomed. It would freeze several more times that year.
I came across a dead raccoon at about the same time as a middle-aged woman in a red dress. She pitied the fellow mammal and didn't want to leave it to just rot in the sun. She asked me to pick it up and lift into a trash bag she had brought with her and I agreed. It seemed like the decent thing to do; both for the animal and human help. When I grabbed it's tail I found that it's flesh had already degraded to the consistency of warm custard. My hands simply slipped until there was nothing left of the tail except some nerve ending or something. The woman apologized and thanked me for my efforts. My hands remained covered with meat for some time as the nearest bathroom was several hundred yards away. Once there I found that it had no hot water.
I returned home, showered, and fasted for several hours; even though it was Sunday and I usually gorge on Sundays. For several days afterwards I was psychosomatic with the fear of catching whatever exotic microbe had killed the raccoon. I turned out fine. The coon I suppose was eaten by birds.