Mother Nature Evens The Score

Current Tally for Fall 2008

Pam, 2

Boris, 6

Squirrels, 0

Skunk, 1

I may as well warn you, if you're the least bit squeamish, or you're an animal lover at all costs, or if you're squeamish (did I mention squeamish?) then walk away from the blog. 

Just keep walking and don't look back.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Here is my secret weapon known simply as The Boris.

 

I've had Boris for umpteen years. He's got a reputation around the neighborhood for being a bad seed, but that's prejudice pure and simple. He's not aggressive, just stupidly stubborn and will stand his ground no matter the consequences. This has left him with a bad rep as a fighter. I have no idea how old he is because he was a stray when decided we'd do as his new caretakers. He has a lot of gray now, and his teeth are not in great shape, but one thing that's been pretty consistent is his weight gain every fall. I thought it was because of all the mice he catches, judging from the mouse bits and pieces on the front steps every morning. And his saucy little swagger.

(I have photos I'd love to share with you what it is I have to face when I step out my door, but gentle readers fear not, I will not abuse your tender hearts.)

Oh wait, I'm lying like a rug:



(Hey, if I have to stumble out in the mornings, usually without benefits of coffee, and THIS is the first thing I see on my front step, why shouldn't you suffer with me?)

(And you may as well know now, it's going to get worse.)

(Much. Worse.)

Just last weekend, he bagged six. He's a tad fussy, so he only eats the chest. He leaves the bottom half, the top two severed feet, the front of the head, and one organ I have not yet identified. It explains why each autumn, his belly swings from side to side as he staggers up the driveway, meat drunk from daily feasts of squirrel. The vet tried to put him on a diet once and of course, it failed miserably because Boris just helps himself to the all-u-can-eat scampering buffet on our lawn. And yes, before you say it, we tried keeping him inside, but he hides then bolts out the front door faster than Jennifer Aniston's boyfriends.

I took a photograph of one of the carcasses he left me, and by "shot" I mean photograph. (What am I, Alaskan?) They're all left in the identical state I described above, like some serial killer on CSI. I will spare you that photo, I promise, because it's horrible, but you should know that every time I walk across the lawn, I assume I'm going to find another body.

By now you're probably wondering, "But wait a minute. Didn't she mention a skunk in her tally?"

It was only a matter of time, I suppose. I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner, actually. We've had a family of skunks living under our front porch for months now. My kids are a little freaked out when they come home from a night out with friends and have to outwit, outsmart and outplay a bunch of skunks before they can get in the front door. I put moth balls and spicy Critter Ridder under the steps and blocked the access with rocks. I thought, naively, that would be it and they'd move on. And they did. Into the back yard. 

Last Saturday, I let Buddy out at midnight for last call. Buddy is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and despite his dewy-eyed appearance, these dogs are hunters. Flushers, to be more exact - it's in their genetic code to run ahead of the hunters and flush the game. They live to chase. You see where this is going, right?

As I watched at the back door, Buddy bolted into a corner of the garden as though fired from a cannon and I knew, I just knew what had piqued his interest - something with four stiff legs and a tail in the air. Within seconds, Buddy stumbled back to the door and I saw he had taken a direct hit to the face. Buddy couldn't open his eyes, he was salivating and looked completely shell-shocked. I kept my cool and calmly planned how best to treat him....okay, I freaked out, completely and utterly, and sobbed as I grabbed latex gloves and water, not thinking that the clothes I had on at the time would be ruined. I was just terrified he'd been permanently blinded.

Doug got on the phone with our vet who said to use a mixture of peroxide, baking soda and dish detergent on his body, and rinse his eyes with plain water. Needless to say, we didn't have any peroxide in the house. (I was telling this story to a nurse friend of mine who said, "Oh yes, peroxide. I thought everyone keeps that around for wounds. You know how it bubbles up nicely and releases oxygen when you pour it on an open wound?  I was just removing some maggots from a patient the other day and...." Seriously. Like she was chatting about adding milk chocolate chips instead of semi-sweet to her cookie recipe. Actually, milk chocolate chips do make me shudder more than maggots, but I digress.)

So Doug went off in search of an all-night druggist at 1 a.m. while I rinsed Buddy's eyes, then I sat with him on the back deck so that he wouldn't a) go after anything else and b) jump up and paw at the door. Up close and personal like that, it was an indescribable assault that didn't even resemble the gentle whiffs one gets when driving past a skunk on the road. It was an entirely new evil - heavy, dark and acidic, and it crawled into my nose and throat, coated my tongue and clawed its way into my brain.  I sat there alternatively retching and talking calmly to Bud who was so pitiful, it made me cry every time I looked over at him.  I tried to cover him with a towel because if I was chilled to the bone then he was too but he wanted to crawl into my lap, Cavies being lap dogs by nature, but that clearly wasn't an option. We sat, shivering, for over an hour until Doug returned with the ingredients for the Magic Potion.

There were a couple of hours of outdoor scrubbing with the peroxide mixture. I was numb with cold and my back went into spasms. The house reeked in every corner of every room from just opening the door.  Around 3:30 a.m. we carried Bud upstairs to the tub and shampooed him. It's a credit to his personality that he withstood all of this without complaint, even letting me wipe his nostrils and muzzle without moving. We gave him a bit of yogurt because there was nothing else to do for his tongue and mouth, and I dried him with a blow dryer. Then we all stumbled into bed around 4:00 a.m.  Clothes, towels, blankets, all ruined.

I wish I could say it cured Buddy of running after things, but the next morning, he charged into the same corner to check out a rustling noise, which thankfully turned out to be a cat.

I could only shake my head. But really, look at that face. Could you stay angry?

 

Now if Boris was the one who got skunked, it would be game over for everyone involved. The only way I could bathe him was if he was in a coma. And even then....

 

Hidden faces

I have a tendency to see faces or profiles in seemingly random places, like clouds or drapes or shadows on the wall. I was going through some of my old photos, looking for suitable prints to include in an upcoming competition at my photography club, when I came across this one. Because it's a competition, I took a really close look.

Does anyone else see a devilish little elf face peeking out of the centre of this flower, or is it just me?

 

Why we can't let Harper Win

And Heaven help us all if he gets a majority.

If you live outside Quebec, you might not find this funny or even remotely comprehensible, but for those of us who live here, particularly those of us who are in the arts, this is hysterical.

Warning. Not safe for work due to language. If you know the French word for "seal" then you'll be okay.

The last ride for the season

We took the boat out of the water last weekend and decided to take one last ride. Of course, Buddy got into the action. He loves nothing more than being with us in the boat, unless it's eating thongs or dead squirrel.

This is Buddy before the ride began. He looks like a Breck girl model, no?

 

But then the Skipper picked up speed.

 

 

 

 

The Skipper seems pleased with himself, no?

 

Mother Nature is messing with my head

Okay, first I have to tell you if you are easily offended, or if you are at work or you have small children about, then this is not the post for you.

Don't say I didn't warn you. (And I apologize for the quality of the photos. I don't have my trusty Nikon with me, so I had to use my Canon Sureshot.)

Remember, I am only reporting what I found lurking in my yard, so don't be hatin'. I didn't create this thing, Mother Nature did, and I think she is must be going through some kind of existential crisis and chose my backyard to express her angst. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say this thing is freaky. It also explains why my lawn-care guys were giggling and calling their buddies parked out front in the truck to come have a look.

My morning started out innocently enough. I was picking up "Buddy bombs" in the yard, and I saw Henry peeking through the fence. I love photographing Henry because he's a big goofy retriever with a wise old face.

Here is Henry at the fence:

But what is that white thing on the ground in the shade of the forsythia, down in the left corner? I moved in for a closer look, as did Buddy. He seemed a tad wary.

Now, I'm no fungi expert, but Holy Mother of all Mushrooms....this is what I saw growing at my feet:

Seriously. It looks like Sir Walter Raleigh on his way to a fetish party, his manhood embellished with an Elizabethan ruffle which is clearly tied too tight.

And if the sight of this thing wasn't bad enough, it had a smell that could knock you over from twenty feet away. How to describe the stench? I guess if you took a dead body, stuffed it with moldy mushrooms and unwashed gym socks, let it stew for a few weeks in warm sea water then sprinkled it with acetone you might come close. Buddy then whacked it over with his tail.

To avoid any accidental poisoning, I stuck the thing up in my flower box. The next day, the stench was worse than ever, and it was coated in giant flies which had already devoured the brown coating on the....head, I guess you could say. I placed a ruler beside it, and as you can see, this thing is a full eight inches. (I'm not touching that one, I'm not going there, I will not make a joke, I will not.)

If anyone could tell me exactly what this is, and if it's poisonous, I'd really appreciate it. I tried Googling it, but the entries that popped up when I put "mushroom + penis shape" are probably best left to your imagination.

On the craft of writing

Here is a wonderful link (courtesy of Susan Adrian) to Jennifer Lynn Barnes who writes about finding and keeping the joy of writing. Most of it (okay, ALL of it) rang true, especially:

"Give yourself permission to suck." I've heard this before. It's a variation on the Shitty First Draft theory, but this is a really hard habit for me to break. I began writing in the pre-Whiteout pre-Spellcheck prehistoric days so if I made a mistake, I had to start all over again. Uninhibited, free-flow expression took a backseat to slow, careful, accurate prose (although in my case, free expression was screaming out the window and mooning innocent bystanders while plotting for her turn at the wheel.)

"Don't stop reading as a reader." Ah, another bad habit of mine and one I'm trying to correct. I also carry this one over to the movie theatre where I find myself thinking things like, "oh, there's the inciting incident, a little late and I would have done it this way," However, when I am lucky enough to find a really great story with characters I believe in and care about, I will be completely immersed in that world and forget who wrote it, or even that I'm sitting there reading. And a great story isn't necessarily a well-written story. THE DA VINCI CODE comes to mind as a book savaged by critics as poorly written and yet, I kept turning the pages to see what happened next. Which makes me wonder what Brown's S.F.D. looked like.

I also realized I have to stick to what I'm good at, and write what I enjoy. I am asked frequently if I'm going to write a novel, and while I have a number of ideas outlined and chunks written, I find that short essays are fun, and they're what I've been able to publish, so I guess if it ain't broke....

If you write, have a look at Jennifer's blog and see if you recognize yourself. I know I did.

How I spent my summer vacation

In the boat looking back at these two goofballs.