I Don't Have to be Hateful, I Can Just Say 'Bless Your Heart'
Last night I was already experiencing significant anxiety from the day. I was on the phone in bed, trying to unwind myself. I got up to check the thermostat (anxiety from the bill), count cats (anxiety for kitty prison), make sure there are no packages on the doorstep (anxiety over them getting wet), unpack the Chewy delivery (anxiety about Blanche tearing into the box and eating a month's food in four minutes). I go back to bed.
About 11pm, as I'm hearing a story, I hear someone making a lot of noise in what sounded like my backyard. Gabe's not home.
I am perfectly calm, of course. Then I hear what sounded like someone tripping over my grill. I do not panic (much), turn on the bedside lamp, grab the tactical war hammer from under the bed, creep down the stairs, turning on no lights because the moon is so bright and I don't want him to see me before I see him.
I see Floyd, walking around unbothered, by the patio door to the backyard. Blanche is nowhere to be found. The cats are fine, so it must be nothing.
I clear the house, creep over and check the lock on the patio door, and wait a few minutes. All is quiet. I go back upstairs thinking I'd spooked him.
Blanche is still conspicuously absent in the face of such excitement. That's honestly unheard of. She's my attack cat and I'm sure she'd be right by me, mad as hell if something really dangerous turned up, to growl viciously until offered food.
I haven't opened a door since I last saw her, so unless she grew thumbs and stole a key, I knew she was fine. I wouldn't put any of that out of the realm of possibility. She's the determined sort.
There is a brief discussion about whether "it's really a hammer" which led us to believe it's kind of really an ice axe, but they market that baby as war hammer. My best friend gifted it to me years ago. Much safer than having a gun in the house with a white teenage boy living with me. We named it "Mildr." There's no exact translation, but it's the closest we could get to Viking for "kindness." Ergo, in the event someone breaks into my house, I can kiII them with...you get the joke.
I turn off the light and lay back down, telling my conversation partner that everything is okay, despite my heart beating like a rabbit. Storytime resumes.
I hear something again within just a minute or two.
I get up, go to the bedroom window, look out and see a reflection of something moving in the grass. Something silvery-metallic being pushed around by...
Blanche loses her mind shaking the whole blind in her attempt to climb through the closed window right beside me. I very nearly bashed her head in with a war hammer. I do not pee. I do not so much as scream. Probably because subconsciously, I knew if I screamed, I would also pee.
I go back downstairs. By this time, I can tell by the shape in the light of the moon that we have what we call in the American South "a critter." I cannot identify the flavor in the dark, but somewhere in the domestic housecat, common racoon, Virginia opossum range. I don't worry that it is some larger predator so I sneak in the dark to the big glass door and see... a sizeable possum attempting to scurry away from the grill.
This critter wandered into my backyard, crawled under my strapped-down grill cover, dragged down the grease trap (the tripping sound, surely) and was having a midnight snack of leftover steak drippings.
Of course, it scuttles into the blind corner of the yard, pausing occasionally to see if I pursue, waddling onward when it can still see me. There is no escape that way. I snap a picture. I gather up the grease trap and all the bits that fell off with it and bring them to the kitchen.
I root around in the fridge and find some pineapple that's just barely past where I want to eat and think, that'll do. It won't attract cats or coyotes or loose dogs, but will be delicious to a possum, and maybe some other herbi/omnis. I take it outside, put it on the grass where the noisy-ass grease trap formerly lay, scolded the little fella about being a rude house guest and promised to the darkness to not throw any more delectable little tidbits in the trash without first offering them to the wildlife.
I go back to bed. I talk for a while longer, trying to calm myself enough to sleep. I do not do the best job.
About 11pm, as I'm hearing a story, I hear someone making a lot of noise in what sounded like my backyard. Gabe's not home.
I am perfectly calm, of course. Then I hear what sounded like someone tripping over my grill. I do not panic (much), turn on the bedside lamp, grab the tactical war hammer from under the bed, creep down the stairs, turning on no lights because the moon is so bright and I don't want him to see me before I see him.
I see Floyd, walking around unbothered, by the patio door to the backyard. Blanche is nowhere to be found. The cats are fine, so it must be nothing.
I clear the house, creep over and check the lock on the patio door, and wait a few minutes. All is quiet. I go back upstairs thinking I'd spooked him.
Blanche is still conspicuously absent in the face of such excitement. That's honestly unheard of. She's my attack cat and I'm sure she'd be right by me, mad as hell if something really dangerous turned up, to growl viciously until offered food.
I haven't opened a door since I last saw her, so unless she grew thumbs and stole a key, I knew she was fine. I wouldn't put any of that out of the realm of possibility. She's the determined sort.
There is a brief discussion about whether "it's really a hammer" which led us to believe it's kind of really an ice axe, but they market that baby as war hammer. My best friend gifted it to me years ago. Much safer than having a gun in the house with a white teenage boy living with me. We named it "Mildr." There's no exact translation, but it's the closest we could get to Viking for "kindness." Ergo, in the event someone breaks into my house, I can kiII them with...you get the joke.
I turn off the light and lay back down, telling my conversation partner that everything is okay, despite my heart beating like a rabbit. Storytime resumes.
I hear something again within just a minute or two.
I get up, go to the bedroom window, look out and see a reflection of something moving in the grass. Something silvery-metallic being pushed around by...
Blanche loses her mind shaking the whole blind in her attempt to climb through the closed window right beside me. I very nearly bashed her head in with a war hammer. I do not pee. I do not so much as scream. Probably because subconsciously, I knew if I screamed, I would also pee.
I go back downstairs. By this time, I can tell by the shape in the light of the moon that we have what we call in the American South "a critter." I cannot identify the flavor in the dark, but somewhere in the domestic housecat, common racoon, Virginia opossum range. I don't worry that it is some larger predator so I sneak in the dark to the big glass door and see... a sizeable possum attempting to scurry away from the grill.
This critter wandered into my backyard, crawled under my strapped-down grill cover, dragged down the grease trap (the tripping sound, surely) and was having a midnight snack of leftover steak drippings.
Of course, it scuttles into the blind corner of the yard, pausing occasionally to see if I pursue, waddling onward when it can still see me. There is no escape that way. I snap a picture. I gather up the grease trap and all the bits that fell off with it and bring them to the kitchen.
I root around in the fridge and find some pineapple that's just barely past where I want to eat and think, that'll do. It won't attract cats or coyotes or loose dogs, but will be delicious to a possum, and maybe some other herbi/omnis. I take it outside, put it on the grass where the noisy-ass grease trap formerly lay, scolded the little fella about being a rude house guest and promised to the darkness to not throw any more delectable little tidbits in the trash without first offering them to the wildlife.
I go back to bed. I talk for a while longer, trying to calm myself enough to sleep. I do not do the best job.
As an update, this critter returns on a regular basis. They now have their own bowl. I put grapes, cherries, bananas, and whatever veggies out that are just a bit too far gone for me to want to eat them. The possum has replaced the child as a garbage disposal. This morning, grapes were strewn across the backyard. Oh, the wildlife is becoming a picky eater. Typical.
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