Y’all almost lost me last night. There was almost an obituary in place of this post. Scratch that. Too morbid.
I got the everlovin’ sh*t scared out of me last night. Scratch that. Too profane.
I almost killed Miss Priss last night. And no, dammit, I’m not scratching this one. I’m not scratching it because some feel-gooder out there thinks I’ve just busted through a Zero Tolerance Zone. It is what it is. She [see paragraph 2] and it almost [see paragraph 1].
See, we live in a beautiful, rural area. We wake every morning to the sound of mourning doves and crowing roosters, not sirens and tires screeching. We live across from a thirty-three acre horse farm, and if we are lucky, when we go get the mail from the mailbox, the occasional horse will stick his head out the fence and say hello. Hell. I planted hummbutt seedballz, for goodness sakes. It’s quiet, it’s natural, it’s beautiful out here.
And I’m totally out of my element.
I have my dogs, all three of them. I’ve
killed had more Bettas than I should ever have to account for. I don’t mind the neighbor’s cat, because he makes sure I never see anything coming close to Order Rodentia. I love the horses, the cows, and, while I wonder why on earth anyone needs thirty goats, I don’t actually mind seeing them when I drive to work. I pass at least three or four houses with pigs and/or goats and/or chicks and/or rabbits for sale. (I don’t stop.)
But I don’t get along very well with, um, the undomesticated members of the animal kingdom. In other words, and I hope I’m not being all highbrow when I say this, I don’t wike icky stuff.
For example, there was the time a copperhead made its way to our front porch. I didn’t do too badly that time — I held his neck with a long barbecue fork till Mr. Nerd, well, I may just shriek and fall out with the vapors if I say it, so let’s just say until he “took care of it.” After which I shrieked and fell out with the vapors.
Then there was the time that I was working in my garden when I noticed a tail. Not a snake. Not a rope. A tail. And that tail was affixed to a posterior. The anterior was nowhere to be seen. There was simply this foul, furry rump in the begonias. Whatever it was had burrowed its way all the way down. Well I don’t have to tell you I shrieked and fell out with, yes, the vapors. Then we commenced to trying to scare said thing out of the flower bed. It wouldn’t budge. So then we did a whole bunch of things that the PETA people would, yes, shriek and get the vapors over, finally ending up with pulling the offending thing (wearing proper gloves, of course) out of the dirt by its tail. At the end of the tail (or was it at the beginning) was the most vile, disgusting, offensive excuse for a living thing I had ever seen (with the exception of cockroaches which, of course, make me shriek and, you know). And after doing what any good country girl would do (run to the internet and look up what we had just unearthed), we discovered we had what is aptly titled a Screaming Hairy Armadillo. Think it’s not vile? Google it. And that is its name.
So anyway. You get the picture. I’m a girly girl.
Well, Miss Priss returned yesterday evening from camp. She is attending a fabulous horseback riding camp on 111 acres of lakes and trails. She has had the most incredible experience. And she comes home smelling of horses and hay and good old hard work and sweat. She’s already been invited to become a Junior Wrangler because she has breezed thru instruction so well. So she’s become a regular little country girl, and I’m so happy that she’s enjoying all of nature’s bounty.
But I do NOT like when she brings that bounty home.
Last night, as I was picking up laundry, I noticed a brown something on the bathroom counter. Miss Priss was in the shower, so I asked what that brown something might be, and she told me it was a mussel. Well, my little brain immediately thought mussel shell because no, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Right?
I walked back into the bathroom about an hour later. The mussel shell had crept open. And crawling out of the shell was a raw, boneless chicken breast. No, y’all it really was. That’s exactly what it looked like. A moving, undulating, raw chicken breast.
I shrieked and fell out with one hell of a case of the vapors.
Miss Priss came running into the bathroom. I was frozen with fear. All I could do was point. The undulating chicken breast was sticking itself to the bathroom counter. And I was, well, you know.
Miss Priss starts screaming for me to get it. Yeah, I’m there, sweetheart. Finally she grabs a towel and picks it up (it was kind of stuck to the counter). Then she stared at me (like I was going to go all caring parent on her and take it from her). I pointed to the front door and almost killed myself getting it open and shoving her out there. She didn’t stop running until she got to the ditch. She tossed it in the water (before it died, PETA, before it died).
And I shrieked. Again.
I’m still shaking.