I'm Worried About The Pandas' Mental Health

 My Google News Feed really dumped on me today. It was bad enough wading through the tragic events in Gaza, the barrage of intensifying bad behaviour among republicans in the House of Representatives, and another road closure in my neighbourhood, but did it have to tell me about how China is cruelly using their Pandas as a bargaining chip?  As always, no need to click over to the article because as I said so many years ago, when there is a Panda story, I am all over it. That is my vow to you.

As some of you may know, China refused to renew our Panda Lease on three Pandas we had here in the US (Tian Tian, Mei Xiang, and Xiao Qi Ji housed at the National Zoo, DC). They were bid a tearful farewell when their lease was up about a week and a half ago. Previous to that, Pandas living happily in San Diego and Memphis had their Panda Visas cancelled, too. The only remaining Pandas are in Atlanta, and their lease expires next year, at which time they're also headed back to China. 

Previously, Panda Leases were perfunctorily extended, but since diplomatic relations have gotten a little strained, the Chinese decided to Pull Their Pandas. President Xi didn't like that the US shot down his spy balloon; he didn't appreciate then-Speaker Pelosi's visit to Taiwan. Basically, Xi said, "Hey, just for that, we're taking back our Pandas!"

He's a tough guy, that Xi. He was, however, moved to find out that Americans, especially children, went to the zoo to say goodbye to the Pandas. That evidently softened him up a little. “Pandas have long been envoys of friendship between the Chinese and American peoples. We are ready to continue our cooperation with the United States on Panda conservation,” he said. Translation:  Make nice here if you want some Pandas, Mr. President.

This Panda Diplomacy has gone on since 1972 when Nixon made his historic visit to China. Since then, China has gifted nations with Pandas as a sign of friendship and good diplomatic relations. And when the nations displease them, China yanks those Pandas back. 

China also gets all the Pandas born to their Pandas in other nations. I feel bad for those little Pandas, raised in another country and shipped off to China. They don't know the language! Everyone looks different than what they're used to! It's a culture shock!

Maybe we should tell Xi Jinping thanks, but no thanks. It all sounds traumatic for the Pandas, young or old. Maybe China should just keep their Pandas to themselves.

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In Which I Talk About Fall, Robins, Lovely Views, And The Little Tree That Could

(This quote was NOT said by Daisy, but by Jordan. It's a lot of work to redo this graphic, so this correction has to do.)

Not much is happening except for Fall trying to figure itself out. It is definitely here, but it is having a hard time settling in and unwinding. We've had a few frost warnings, many days of blustery north winds off Lake Erie, and more rain than I care for. Sunshine has been in short supply, but there were two magnificent days of low seventies, slight breezes, and warm autumn sun that revived us all. On those days my walks were glorious.

The robins, who had disappeared sometime in August, are suddenly back. When they vanished, it was incredibly strange because it was all at once and completely. One day there were simply none at all anyplace, and it is the same with their return. A few days ago, they were everywhere again, on my walk, in my yard, and in neighboring trees. I'd mention it in conversation with my mother, but she interprets everything now as a sign that it's going to be a hard winter, and I am sick of hearing about it. Lots of pine cones? Hard winter coming. Less leaves turning colours this month? Hard winter coming. See a chubby squirrel? I think you get my drift. 

I won't be showing her this photo; I took it on my walk yesterday. It's either a crabapple or apple tree, and it's put out new blossoms on a few branches:

There are more in several other areas of the tree, but this is a representative sample. (I know:  it's going to be a hard winter, right?) I don't know what's up with this odd occurrence, but I like this tree's attitude, and I told it so. 

I have a good relationship with a great many trees on my route. I've just grown fond of these two baby redbud trees based solely upon their fashion sense. They've mastered the Art Of Ombre:

These sisters are in the same yard, and they're going to be even more beautiful when they start producing flowers. 

This Fall is full of mysteries so far. Many, many of our trees are still lushly green. Some trees have only a few big limbs that have turned colour completely. Yards still need to be mowed regularly when it isn't raining. In the herb garden, only the basil has been pulled out. The rest of the herbs still flourish (an understatement when it comes to my sage). A juvenile redheaded woodpecker frequents my feeder; isn't it awfully late for young birds?

This weekend we are dry-docking the boat and putting the deck furniture in the storage shed. Lake season will officially be over. We never completely close up the house, and we'll probably still weekend there from time to time. Here's a sunrise photo taken from the bedroom view on a September morning:

The fog soon lifted, and we had another lovely day.

Earlier in September, we had this sunset:

No need for filters--it's an awe-inspiring display on its own. I'll miss boat rides; they afforded us the best views for sunsets. Still, it's not good to become spoiled.

Talk to me of your Fall in Comments. Are you noticing, like me, anything unusual?

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For The Birds

I have a long, long history as a Bird Enthusiast, documented already in this post from years ago. It's perplexing how I can retain so much Bird Knowledge, yet forget where in the heck I set my phone down or on which streaming service the show we're watching can be found. Right now I can hear a cardinal outside the window. I don't even have to go and check to see if I'm right.

This, however, was supposed to be The Summer Of The Blue Jay. If you remember, I was setting peanuts out on my porch in a ceramic dish every morning, and a blue jay was coming for breakfast. My goal was to get that blue jay (which I named Sassy) to eventually take a peanut from my hand. Well, that didn't happen, and I sure didn't think up enough names for my Breakfast Club.

I did try to sit out on my porch quietly, but my blue jay just screamed its annoyance and stayed away. Because I am a little bit of an anthropomorphizer and a little bit of an empath, I had to give up after several tries. It just made me feel bad. So I settled for calling, "Sassy!" after I placed the peanuts, and went in and sat on the couch by the window. Very soon, Sassy would come, and I'd say his (? her?) name a few times softly as he took his time choosing the right nut. Then he'd fly away, returning quickly for the next.

It wasn't long before Sassy's Peanut Buffet became common knowledge among the Blue Jay Community. At least four different blue jays are now breakfasting at my house, observed not just by me, but by the resident cats, Marlowe and Piper, too. Even when I put peanuts on the table directly under our gaze, the blue jays hop up and grab their meal. The jays never eat together, but always wait until each one leaves before swooping in.

I'm calling it a Win. 

In other Victorious Bird News, I have successfully repelled squirrels from my backyard feeder by stirring cayenne pepper into the birdseed. It's astonishing how effective it is. It's dramatically cut down the chipmunk traffic in the yard as well. Now if I could find a way to keep starlings away, that would be even better. Redheaded woodpeckers are abundant, even at my little stick-on window feeder that entertains the cats. The robins, who appeared in February this year and were everywhere, suddenly disappeared midsummer. I'm noticing more female cardinals than males. Does any of this mean anything? Who knows. 

Finally, here's a bit of an Oddment:  In my entire life I've never found a cardinal feather. I've found countless blue jay feathers, starling and grackle feathers, and brown feathers from any number of sparrows or whatever. At the lake we find goose feathers quite often, and we've found duck feathers, too. Have you ever found that beautiful red feather?

Enjoy your September now that we're in its midst. How did that happen?

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Words And Sunday Sundries

 Sigh.

January, I must tell you, has seen me surpass Pandemic Fatigue and stride purposefully into Pandemic Burnout. The weather has been shitful:  grey, freezing cold, windy, sunless, icy, sleety or snowy or wintry mixy off and on, and cloudy. Did I mention there has been almost no sun? Well, there hasn't. One night, we threatened to have cherry pie for dinner. Another night, ice cream. One day, I stayed in my jammies until two o'clock. 

I've discovered that there are Words now for some other Pandemic Things I can relate to. I'm not the only one who is Pangry a great deal of the time. Have you heard of Pangry? It's the term used for the anger you feel for people who are ignoring the pandemic, who are engaging in risky behaviours and prolonging this agony for the rest of us. You know them--they're the ones who are still gathering in large, unmasked groups, sitting shoulder to shoulder in bars, having parties, throwing big weddings, and defying mask mandates. 

And speaking of Masks, why is it that a vast majority of men cannot grasp the fact that Masks Are To Be Worn Over The Nose? This is absolutely a Man Thing, and I do not want to hear any Excuses posing as Reasons for it. Men can wear masks properly, period. They just stubbornly refuse to do so for some ridiculously idiotic male reason. I see it constantly, and I call it out constantly at the grocery store, the pharmacy, or anyplace I have to be. (Luckily, my grocery store has become Militant About Proper Masking, and I do tattle.) Writer James Gorman of The New York Times has invented a new word for this phenomenon, this proclivity of men sliding their masks below their noses; he calls it Manslipping.  Manslipping, he says, "is like manspreading. We — some of us — do it because we are, well, men. And you know what men are like." Yes. Yes I do. 

It is here that I must say all three of the Dept. Men wear masks properly.

Before this final post of January becomes completely snarky and unrelentingly grumpy, let me move on to the Sunday Sundries.

^*^I read with great excitement the news that two dwarf giraffes were discovered in the world. I immediately thought of how fun it would be to have little giraffes, like miniature horses or mini cows, just wee little things, like pets. My joy was dispelled somewhat when I read on and saw that they were still 9.3 and 8.5 feet tall.

^*^On my way home from the grocery store Wednesday, I saw five fat robins in someone's tree lawn. Since robins are usually a harbinger of Spring in NEO, I was startled. Last year, they arrived early, but not this early. Yesterday, two fluffed-up robins sat in my barberry bush, eating berries in the cold wind. I smiled, though, thinking that I had not taken their nest down from last season, only cleaned out the dangerous fishing line from within it.

^*^Today's obituaries in the Cleveland Plain Dealer yielded last names of Downer, Dingle, and Funk. Once again, I thanked my husband for not having a last name that would have made my career difficult.

^*^One last interesting Word, this one newly added to the Merriam-Webster online dictionary:  sapiosexual--sexually or romantically attracted to highly intelligent people.

(I'd like to believe I married one of those.)

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When Bears Attack

One of my favourite things is when Rick comes home from work, sits in his recliner, and reads to me. He is addicted to a news service on his phone called Flipboard, and he reads me anything he finds interesting that he thinks I'll find interesting, too. Sometimes, he does some editorializing, which is a nice bonus. Often, I do the editorializing, which is sometimes not nearly as nice because I use a lot of profanity if it's political news. 

What can I say? I get stirred up.

Anyway, the other day, Rick was reading me a story from Flipboard about a heroic man in California who saved his dog from a bear attack. 

Here's how that went:

Rick:  So, some guy in California punched a 350-pound bear in the face to save his dog Buddy's life.

Nance:  (looks up from her game of Wordscapes on her phone) Wow. I have not done anything with my life.

Rick: (looks directly at her; pauses meaningfully) No.

Nance:  Wait. The dog's name was Buddy? This guy will punch a 350-pound bear right in its face, but he can't be bothered to think of a better name for his dog than Buddy?

Rick:  (ignores her) Now it says the bear keeps coming back and won't leave them alone. That it sees the dog as food and knows it's still there. 

Nance:  Who says that? And where the hell does this guy live, in a national park or something? 

Rick:  Nance, I don't know. I'm just reading the story that's here. It doesn't say all that.

Nance:  Maybe it's time to change that dog's name. That dog is probably embarrassed. Poor thing. 

This whole story reminded me of another Bear Story that made me feel bad about myself for not ever stepping up and fighting a bear for...anything, really. 

Back in 2006 in Quebec, a woman named Lydia Angyiou got between her seven-year old son and a 700-pound polar bear who wandered into a kids' street hockey game. The polar bear swatted Ms. Angyiou down, but she kept fighting until someone with a gun fired off a shot to distract the bear. He backed off, and the shooter had to fire four times to fell the bear. I wrote about it here in 2006, lamenting my parenting failure compared to Ms. Angyiou's obviously superior efforts. Let's face it; unless you save your kid from a rampaging bear, you're in the minor leagues at best.

But I digress.

The question is--would I go up against a crazed and hungry bear to save my cats, Piper and Marlowe? As the Magic 8 Ball would say, OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD. Oh, sure, I'd scream and bang on some pots or something to distract the bear (and, hey! what is a bear doing in my neighborhood?), but I have to tell you that, really, they're goners. 

Be real about your pets and a bear attack in Comments.

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A Cranial Clear-Out--Some This 'N That For You To Pick Through

 It's time for a general Cranial Clear-Out, so here are a few of the bits and bobs that have been taking up space in my cerebellum.

~*~I have a new nextdoor neighbor, and I have fallen deeply in love with him. His name is Oakley, and he is a rescue puppy. On Friday, it was so warm and breezy out that I had all the windows open, and I could hear his squeaky toy. It gave me such giggly joy.

~*~A few ads for cosmetic procedure clinics here use the slogans "You're worth it" and "You deserve it" to hawk their services. That drives me crazy. Just because I'm worth it and deserve it doesn't mean I can or should have things. I'm absolutely worth a live-in maid and chef. I'm definitely worth a tummy tuck and a house in Italy. And hell be damned sure I'm worth a lifetime supply of peanut MM's (I'm addicted). And I honestly think I deserve them. I even know many other people who deserve those things. But that doesn't mean that we should automatically go out and get them. If I went and got everything I deserved or was worth, we'd have declared bankruptcy hundreds of times over. It would be the same for you.

~*~My porch furniture and my deck furniture are still out. I'm a little in denial and a little bit lazy. We hit near 80 on Thursday and Friday, and I made the most of both outdoor spaces each day, partly because it was so gorgeous out and partly because I wanted to make myself feel better that my porch furniture and my deck furniture are still out. For those of you scoring at home, it is the last week of October. Sigh.

~*~I have been doing something terribly juvenile for the past week or so, but it provides me with a rather cathartic feeling. As I drive, I give the finger to each and every 45* campaign sign I see. I'm not aggressive and vicious about it; I don't roll down the window and jab my hand out or anything. I simply raise my hand slightly and flip the bird. Perhaps I'm merely "sinking to their level", as my late father would say, but I honestly don't think so. I think I'm engaged in a little therapeutic exercise and releasing tension. 

~*~Northeast Ohio has hit Peak in Autumn Colour, and my walks are sometimes not walks at all, but a series of Stop And Awe moments. I spend an inordinate time standing under trees and looking upward, marvelling at their brilliant displays. Here are a few examples from Thursday (or was it Friday?) when the weather was downright glorious and the trees were a fiesta.

 

Let's leave it there (no pun intended), shall we? I hope you had some joy, some beauty, and some stress-relief in your life this past week. And we must all do our best to find more in the week to come.

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Bug Stuff, The Movie!

 

I just could not Let It Go. 

I'll be back here in a day or so--which you all know is NanceSpeak for a week, more likely--with something more substantial. But this damn Technical Difficulty was not going to break me. 

You were going to watch this mantis eat her mate whether you cared or not. Gosh, I feel better.

Carry on.

Bug Stuff (And There's Supposed To Be A Movie But Blogger Is Ruining My Life)

When I was a kid about a hundred years ago, I feel like there were more creepy crawlies around in Nature. I can remember catching dozens of lightning bugs (you might call them fireflies) and putting them in a jar with some grass and a twig or two. Now, I rarely see them, and yes, I do look for them. It wasn't odd at all to see the occasional turtle wandering in the yard or even on the sidewalk. And toads were everywhere. Once, when we were at my grandparents' cabin, hundreds of the tiniest frogs I had ever seen came out one night and clung to a tree. Some covered the ground below it. I was instantly in love and wanted to take dozens and dozens home with me. They were no bigger than a dime. By morning they were all gone, and I never saw anything like it again.

I remember a lot more butterflies, too, and moths. Big summertime moths that beat against the screens and porch lights. Grasshoppers were around as well, and when I held them, they'd "spit tobacco" in my hands. We'd play with big grey potato bugs (you might call them pill bugs) and get them to roll into tight balls, tucking their legs until all of them disappeared. I can't remember the last time I saw one. 

Every so often--very, very rarely--a praying mantis would appear. They were almost mythical creatures, and I had heard from someone (my brother, probably) that it was against the law to kill one. I would be almost terrified to see one, afraid that I'd somehow cause its death and get into terrible trouble.  Add to that their odd appearance and weird movements, and I'd just as soon not see them, period.

Obviously, once I got older, I wasn't so naive about the praying mantis; instead, I was fascinated by it, especially its famous mating ritual wherein the female bites the head off of and then consumes the male. I couldn't imagine how that frail-looking head and tiny mouth could accomplish such a feat. Plus, how cool is that, really?  And besides The Internet and documentaries like Planet Earth, when would I ever get a chance to see that up close?

Well, it turns out that This Week is the answer to that question. For quite some time now, a pair of praying mantises (mantii?) has been living on and around my back deck. They climb the back of my house, walk across my deck, and meander among the bushes and grasses nearby. Yesterday, I was about to walk into the back door and noticed them hanging onto the bench like so:

Apparently the male had already lost his head. Since I wasn't really interrupting anything sensitive, I shot a short video:

VIDEO NOT AVAILABLE BECAUSE BLOGGER WON'T UPLOAD IT

(That would be Marlowe, my female crabby cat, protesting in the background. So needy. IF YOU COULD SEE IT AND HEAR IT. I'll keep troubleshooting it.)

There is no sign of the now-single praying mantis today. I looked for her this morning when I left to go vote and again when I came home. I searched when I went out for my walk and when I returned. An obnoxiously loud fly slammed into the kitchen window above me, and I saw a particularly ugly fat grey spider, but not the praying mantis.  Perhaps, her mission accomplished, she has moved on.

Fingers crossed that the multitudes of wee tree frogs are next on the horizon.

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Why My Neighbor Calls Me Wonder Woman

Many months ago, after the battle of the Blue Jays versus the Robins was waged and the Robins won the territory of my back yard, a mama Robin set up housekeeping in the elbow of the downspout just under my roof. The nest was a tidy affair for a Robin, and it was about eight feet from my back door which opens onto my patio. She also lives above my herb garden. Here it is:

My neighbor right next door, Gretchen, and I started watching immediately for babies. We talked over her fence and texted any observations. I made sure to quietly and soothingly speak to the Robin every time I went out the back door, congratulating her on her stalwart and persistent attendance to her duties as a Mother. I called her Mama. I complimented her on her babies. She clutched (so far), astonishingly, three times. 

All was well with the most recent round of babies until about two weeks ago or so when I went to take out the garbage. I looked up as I always do and was shocked to see a naked, potbellied baby bird hanging over the side of the nest. It moved weakly and seemed stuck somehow. Its mother was out gathering food. I watched a few more minutes, trying to see how it was stuck. It was facing me; it seemed to be literally hanging by its neck. I went inside to think about what to do. I decided that if in fifteen minutes, the mother had not somehow saved her baby, I would do it for her.

Of course, I didn't wait fifteen whole minutes. I checked outside sooner and found the poor thing still hanging there. I grabbed latex gloves and the 8-foot step ladder. As I climbed up, the mother appeared on the wire and began chirping in distress. I had to go to the step nearest the very top and lean over. The baby struggled as I touched it; its wings were very strong. I carefully held it and dislodged it from the stiff straw and sticks then flipped it gently back into the nest. 

My relationship with Mama was severely compromised. Her trust was shattered. To her, I had not saved her baby, but had tried to raid the nest and steal it. I felt terrible.

A few days later when I was out tending my herbs, not only did Mama scold me from the wire above, but her husband hopped around, flapping his wings and yelling, only six feet away from me. I was The Enemy for sure.

This past Sunday when we returned from our weekend at the lake, Gretchen called me. "Lots of drama with the Robins," she said. "We were barbecuing and all of a sudden we heard a lot of flapping and banging. One of the babies was hanging upside down from the nest. It couldn't fly away or something. It just kept hanging there. We went in, and later, I guess it finally made it back in the nest. It's there now and it looks fine."

The robin, big enough to fledge, was still there on Monday and Tuesday, just standing at the nest, looking around. We both wondered why it hadn't left the nest. Wednesday morning, before I made my coffee at 7:30, I looked out, and this was happening (video courtesy of Gretchen):

I saw Gretchen on her back porch. I opened my dining room window and she immediately told me that this was the same thing she saw on Friday. "I honestly think she's stuck on something. Wait there a minute." She went inside and got a high-powered camera lens. "Nance, she's definitely stuck. Her leg looks red and raw."

"Okay," I said. "I'll get the ladder and get right on it."

I grabbed another pair of gloves, slipped on my gardening shoes, and went out in my jammies (an old white v-neck tee of Rick's and a pair of boxers, both XL). I grabbed the ladder, positioned it in my herb garden so that it wouldn't hurt anything, and climbed on up. This time, I swear that every single Robin in the neighborhood was there. At least ten of them perched on wires and roofs and branches, all with admonitions and, possibly, advice.

As soon as I could get a better look, I saw the poor Robin's one leg was vastly swollen at the joint. It wasn't rubbed red or raw, though. As I looked more closely, my heart ached. The baby was held fast in place by fishing line that was used as nesting material. It had become embedded in its leg and its leg had merely grown around it. It would never be able to leave the nest--unless I helped it.

I told Gretchen I needed scissors and why. She came out of her house with four pair of varying sizes and shapes. (Bless her heart; I just love her.) I chose the pair I felt would be best for the job and carefully cut the line in two places. As soon as I did, the bird fluttered madly and landed--free--on my patio rug. I felt I had to decamp as quickly as possible before more relatives arrived; I was getting creeped out.

Gretchen and I rejoiced, but she had to rush in and return to work. I put the ladder away and went in to Officially start my day. In a minute or two, my phone dinged with a text message. It was from Gretchen, a GIF of Wonder Woman running. "This is you coming out to save that bird today! Make sure Rick recognizes and rewards you for your heroic acts!" 

Yesterday, I got my ladder and gloves out again to get all the fishing line out of that nest. Gretchen told me she's seen the baby Robin several times, and I have, too. It's flying just fine. If Mama Robin goes for a fourth clutch, they'll all be safe. But, if something should happen, Wonder Woman will be On It.

In Which We Suffer Yet Another Wildlife Invasion (And By "We", I Mean "Me")

About a month or so ago, I said to Rick--even though I knew I might as well tell Piper or Marlowe, the two implacable cats in residence--"Hey, I smell something really awful in the garage. It smells like dead animal or something in there."

Rick, who was either reading Flipboard on his phone, catching up on the family group text, or perusing the mail, gave no sign that he even knew I had spoken. This is standard, unfortunately, and I have to perform a sort of Evaluation Ballet. Did he hear me? Is he Thinking About It? If I repeat myself, will he get testy? Dammit, why can't I ever remember which one is His Good Ear?

Finally, he turned to me. "Hm."

I let a few seconds go by, and then I said, "Well, did you hear what I said? I mean, it really smells bad in there. Something's dead in there. I'm serious."

"Yes I heard you. I don't smell anything. Besides, there's no way anything could get in there anyway. It's just damp."

Oh, Dearest Readers! I know you all remember the last time he assured me there was Nothing In The Garage. Who was right that time? And I didn't even tell you about the summer before last when I suggested using a hose to rid the garage of a raccoon up in the rafters and was pooh-poohed for that idea. Guess how we finally got it down? Let's just say it was one wet and unhappy raccoon when it left.

But I digress.

I continued to smell The Smell, and Rick continued not to. He even cleaned out the garage one warm and sunshiny day and found nothing. Luckily, I was not in the garage too often, thanks to having nowhere to go. But a day came when I wanted to repot my kitchen window geranium, a 4" plant I brought in to winter over. It has become mammoth, rewarding me with nonstop blooms all winter (and now spring) long. I headed out to the garage for a larger pot and some potting soil.

And there it was, That Smell. It was still horrible. But I grabbed a pot and saucer and dragged over the bag of soil. I dug in with the saucer, but I couldn't dislodge any soil. It had gotten really clumped and hard. I reached in with my hand and felt...hair. Because this:

I absolutely felt my stomach right there in between my tonsils. Gagging and retching, I sped to the house to wash and rewash my hands. I could not stop feeling sick. Finally, it passed, and long enough for me to go and grab the bag and drag it out and into the driveway.

Later, Rick came home from work. He walked in and said, "Is there something you want me to do? I see the bag of dirt in the driveway."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, there is." I went out with him to the driveway and explained what I was going to do with the potting soil. I invited him then to look inside the bag.

"Hm," he said. "I even moved that bag when I cleaned out the garage. Never even thought to look inside it."

"But didn't you smell it?" I said. "How can you not smell it?"

"I smell it now that I'm right up against it."

He then walked into the garage and came out with a shovel. He headed over to the bag of soil. "What are you going to do with that?" I asked him.

"I'm assuming you want to keep some of this potting soil that's still good," he said.

"After all the bodily fluids have been seeping into it? No, I do not. What I want you to do is to chuck the whole thing into the trash for me, please."

Later, I recounted for him my whole awful, sickening, frightful encounter. I told him how I had actually touched that horrid dead thing. I told him how it took me a while to stop feeling like I had to throw up. I explained that it was so gross and horrible and my stomach was actually sore from clenching.

"Hm," he said. "I never even thought to look in that bag."

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Monday Meme: Nature

It's March, and as a lifelong resident of Northeast Ohio, I know this means Zero about the arrival of Spring. Point of fact--today's high was 21 degrees; with the wind chill, it felt like 3. There is a light dusting of snow on the ground with a threat of more most of the week. Still, I'm aware we're better off than our seasonal brethren in Michigan, Wisconsin, and most recently, New England.

March makes me weary. It's a long, sloggy month with an Identity Crisis. It's Not-Winter and it's Not-Spring. My father, surprisingly chauvinistic at times, used to call it the Women's Weather Month because it's so changeable. That always irked me, but I do like the idea of Nature being Female (although the term Mother Nature, not so much).

Despite Her many vagaries, I am a great appreciator of Nature (in part, due to my father), even when She does Her level best to irritate the hell out of me with things like snow in general, wind when I'm trying to sleep, squirrels badgering my birdfeeders, and mice breaking into my garage or, worse, my house.

Let's try and Manage March with a Nature Meme:

1. What part of Nature do you like best?
Trees, especially flowering trees.

2. What natural phenomenon would you like to see?
I'd really love to see a full display of the Northern Lights.

3. Is there an animal that you find awe-inspiring?
Lots of them. I recently spotted a bald eagle completely unexpectedly; that took my breath away. When I went whale-watching, I was awed. There is something about elephants that always touches me; they seem to have such an ancient, inherent dignity.

4. Have you ever ridden on a horse or any other animal?
I've always wanted to ride a horse. I've ridden a camel!

5. Are you more of a cat person or a dog person?
I love my granddog Zydrunas wholly and completely, but I am a cat person at heart.

6. Which version of (You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman do you like best, Carole King's or Aretha Franklin's?
I'll always have a soft spot for Carole King's version. Her Tapestry album is part of the soundtrack of my life. But when I think of that song, it's Aretha I hear.

7. Are you a Natural Woman (or Man), or do you avail yourself of a little Help?
I get by with a little help from my friends Mascara and Tinted Moisturizer. I'm far too lazy (and cheap) to colour my hair since it would require endless maintenance, and I'm too scared (and cheap) to get any cosmetic surgery (hospital infection! complications! wasting money!). I've even broken up with Blush for the most part. (Do they even still call it that?)

Your turn. March forth in Comments.


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My New Mantra When Things Get A Little Too Real

facepaintforum.com

Even though I don't feel at all ashamed about Getting Real last week (it was so Cathartic), I have to tell you that my problems pale in comparison to this woman, who lives in a town not too terribly far from where I live. Longtime Readers already know you don't even have to click that link because I'm going to tell you everything you need to know.

While I'm bitching and moaning about cat hair, bathroom hair, English Language abuses, and other non-life threatening mundanities, a middle-aged woman was lying in her front yard telling a 911 operator, "I have a boa constrictor stuck to my face".

I know, right?

And you think you have problems.

Because the nine ball pythons she already owned were lonely, perhaps, the woman had adopted two boa constrictors the day before (or "rescued", as she terms it in the 911 call, at first amusingly misinterpreted as "arrested" by the operator). She decided, apparently, to take one out and give it a cuddle, and it...reciprocated, as five-and-a-half-foot boa constrictors are wont to do. Unfortunately, “it was wrapped around her neck and biting her nose and wouldn’t let go,” Fire Chief Tim Card said. “They had to cut its head off with a [pocket] knife to get it to let go of her face.”

Yikes. I mean, who would have thought it? Everything I know about snakes is that they're so nice and sweet. So easy to train and so obedient. Just the best pets, ever.

The snake (with its head, I presume) was summarily tossed in the town's garbage bin out back of City Hall.

One local animal handler opined that perhaps the woman handled the boa constrictor too soon after rescuing it; that a waiting period of at least one week is advisable to prevent trauma. He also felt the snake could have been saved if they had just used a few drops of rubbing alcohol on its head, which may have gotten it to release its jaws. Sigh. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

All I know is this: I had a few rough days last week, but at no time was a snake stuck to my face. Also, thank goodness snakes can't walk or fly. Or drive. That town is pretty close, and obviously, that woman is...a Little Bit Goofy when it comes to snakes.  But bless her, I'm glad she's okay.

This reminds me of back in 2014 when I wrote about the house near me that exploded right before Christmas. Remember that? I used "at least my house didn't explode" as my mantra for months, helping me to have perspective when anything went wrong or I had a setback or a bad day. It worked pretty well for a while, especially during the holidays.

Well, now I have a new mantra for when things get rough and I'm not feeling up to par. At least I don't have a snake stuck to my face!

Snakes Are Not The Boss Of Me

That I have a debilitating fear of snakes is not news. I've mentioned it in almost a dozen posts, most notably in this one about Irrational Fears and this one, a little playlet starring everyone's favourite, my mother, St. Patsy. (Speaking of which, let me take a moment to remind her: Hey, Mom, whenever you see the little words in a different colour, you can touch them and go to read or look at whatever it is I'm talking about.)

Thanks, everyone. Onward.

I'm happy to report that I've made considerable progress with regard to my phobia of snakes. Much of this progress has to do with the following:

1. My need for control
2. Actually, there really is no Number Two, as it all really boils down to my Need For Absolute Control, come to think about it.

Here's the thing: I really do not like Being Afraid. Of anything. And I also do not appreciate snakes being around where I am, making me feel scared and generally Being The Boss Of Me, which is another Thing I Do Not Like. Just ask my husband, who will readily answer the question, "Who is the boss of Nance?" with an emphatic and vociferous "No one!" Truth be told, my mother will answer the same question in the same way. And, that is precisely how I want snakes to answer it as well.

Seeing a snake on the shoreline of the lakehouse is still not something I'm happy about, but it no longer makes me rooted to the spot. Yes, I'm forbidden from using the ax on it after a few ill-fated forays into that practice of snake killing, but I have my methods.

I've come a long way from the little girl on East 38th Street who cried and cried one day, eventually calling out for her mother. Desperate to use the bathroom, I was too afraid to go in. I called my mom, who came to me, probably harried from hanging laundry outside or taking care of my then baby sister. One of four children, I was not usually a problem, so my mother was probably surprised by my distress. "Mom! Come quick! Call for help! Call the fire department or something. There's a rattlesnake in the toilet. I can hear it in there." My mother ran to the hallway and stopped to listen. There was absolutely no doubt about it--a rattling noise was coming from the bathroom. "Mom! Do you hear it? You heard it, right?" I knew she heard it. I was crying by then, so hard. My mother turned to face me, her eyes wide and her mouth desperately trying to hold back her smile. Then she just couldn't help herself; she started laughing. "Oh, honey," she said. "That's just the wind coming through the Venetian blinds."

Now before you all--and YOU, MOM--get too smug and superior, take a look at this:

courtesy Big Country Snake Removal

Trust me; I'm not happy about it in the least. I want stories like this to be Urban Legends. And I'm sure that the little boy in Texas who found it wasn't real thrilled either, nor was his family, who found a whole basement full of rattlers, as well as a nest under the house. After the initial shock, they called a snake removal system (the fact that this is a real thing makes me doubly sure I do not ever want to live in Texas) to get rid of them all and prevent further infestation. A spokesperson for Big Country Snake Removal said, "People have an irrational fear about" rattlesnakes. Herpetologist Sara Viernum reminds us that, while a rattlesnake bite can cause "temporary and/or permanent tissue and muscle damage, loss of an extremity depending on the location of the bite, internal bleeding, and extreme pain around the injection area", fatalities from rattlesnake bites are rare if treated with antivenin in a timely manner.

I really don't think Big Country Snake Removal and Herpetologist Sara Viernum are helping rattlesnakes a whole helluva lot with their PR .

Not that I care.

Let me just say that I am putting All Snakes On Notice.  If I have to put an ax next to every single toilet in the house, I will.  I have already eliminated all Venetian blinds.

I am In Control.

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Z Is For Zoo

For years and years, our family had a membership to our zoo, the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo. It's a wonderful zoo, and one which has terrific natural habitats like an African Savanna, Wolf Wilderness, RainForest, and Australian Outback. I rode the camels twice and always feed the lorikeets, loving how they land right on my shoulder or my hand as I walk carefully through the enclosure. I've been whistled at admiringly by the African grey parrots, and I've sweet-talked the red pandas out of their little wooden treehouse more than once. I love our zoo, and our family has gone there many, many times. The boys and I made good use of our membership in the summertime, taking guests, rejoicing at the birth of baby animals newly on display (especially awkward young giraffes), and learning not only about different species and biomes, but also about respecting the animals in their homes at the zoo.

After so many years, we started to feel like Zoo Insiders. We started skipping parts of the zoo that weren't that interesting to us. We scoffed at people who wondered aloud if our zoo had panda bears. Duh! We hated the people who read each and every exhibit sign aloud, unless they were reading it to very small children. It drove us crazy when parents let their kids bang on the glass of the animal enclosures when there were enormous signs everywhere that clearly said not to. But we reserved our deepest scorn for two types of people in particular.

The first type wears Inappropriate Zoo Footwear. The Cleveland Metroparks Zoo is a very walkable zoo, but it has lots of hills and winding paths. Despite this terrain, we would still find hundreds of people wearing flipflops, high wedge sandals, kitten heel pumps, and on one memorable visit, stiletto heels. And those Dr. Scholl's sandal thingies with only the strap across the toe and that terrible bump for your toes to cling to. We would see person after person sitting alongside paths or stopped on the hillside terrace, taking off footwear in order to rub his/her feet or remove grit. No sympathy.

The second type is the Pompous Sign Reader/Fake Pontificator. Every single zoo exhibit has an informational sign, sometimes two. And unfailingly, some mom or dad will read information from it as if he or she simply knows this information cold about this exotic animal, like it is so important to impress this kid. The boys and I saw this time and time again, and it was always hilarious and pathetic. But never more than the time in front of the sloth's cage. Because this mom, as she read the sign word for word, kept pronouncing it "slooth." As in "rhymes with tooth." On and on she pontificated, in a very fakey, hyper-engaging, "oh boy, is this ever fun and interesting" breathless voice, just about every line of the plaque's summary about the sloth. "Wow!" she said. "So that's the slooth! Whaddya think, kids? The two-toed slooth!" I thought I would die. (Actually, I probably did die, right there in Cleveland, for a little while, and then Jared and Sam scraped me up off the asphalt and pulled me over to look at koalas, or maybe even flamingos, which always revive me.)

**For the record, that word again is SLOTH. Only one O. I am still Not Over It.**

(Really, now. Does she pronounce the word BOTH as booth? Is an APRICOT an APRICOOT? I mean, how far does this disability extend? When she shops for chicken broth, does she think it's chicken BROOTH?)

I'M DONE NOW. MOVING ON.

And speaking of done, that ends the alphabet for me. Chat me up about your Zoo Thoughts, your own Z Words, or topics you'd like me to take up next.

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2015: The Year Of The Shark

Goodbye, 2015. You were a Year Of Many Lessons. Some of your Lessons, I enjoyed (driving and docking the boat, making fish tacos, the joy of simpler living); others, not so much (well...let's not talk about them). But, your biggest Lesson is one that I keep learning, and it is sometimes your Hardest Lesson of all.

That is why I call 2015 The Year Of The Shark. For ages and ages, it has been said that sharks have to keep moving or they drown. Even though this isn't exactly true for the majority of shark species, it's still accurate to say that there are some varieties of sharks who have to maintain forward swimming motion or they will, indeed, die. 2015 made me realize that I had to be very sharklike and only move forward, too.

It is hard to be disappointed, to suffer loss, to be angry, to be hurt, and to feel sad. But if I'm going to replay those feelings, or dwell upon the episodes that caused them, I'm paralyzing myself. The Year Of The Shark almost made me forget my mantra of "Do whatever you can and then move on, knowing you did what you could."

Almost.

As I've said before, both here and on my defunct blog Stuff On Our List (co-authored with Jared years ago), I don't usually make actual New Year's Resolutions because I think of myself as being on a Continuous Journey Of Self-Improvement. Last year, I did make two, which I promptly forgot, but they sort of roll into my Big Three Resolutions, which are guideposts for my life and have not changed. They are:

1. Be kind.
2. Shut up.
3. Never say never.

Pretty self-explanatory for the most part: I try to make kindness my default in every situation; I try to listen more than talk, which can be a challenge for me; and I try not to deal in absolutes, especially in discussions. Rather than say, "I would never own a gun," I say, "I can't imagine a scenario in which I'd own a gun." Beyond this, I continue to be grateful and work on my patience. Remember--Continuous Journey!

Goodbye, 2015. I look forward now to 2016 and what and who it may bring me. Happy New Year to all of you, and thank you again for reading and commenting. I hope to give you much more for both in the coming year.

The Dept. Is Back And With A New Feature: Ask A Large Cat

The Dept. is back, and with a new Feature, Ask A Large Cat. Without any Further Ado, here is Piper, resident Large Cat, to answer your Queries.

Query 1: Is it Just Me, or is Christmas feeling Blah and Tedious this year?
Large Cat: I feel the same way. I don't even watch Nance wrap gifts this year; I just lie under the tree and sleep. Here in NEO, everyone thinks it is due to the weather, which is extremely warm and snowless. I think that's Zzzzzz.

Query 2: Do you think the rest of the world is laughing at us due to Donald Trump leading in the polls?
Large Cat: No. I think they are shaking their heads in dismay and pity. The laughter ended with the re-election of George W. Bush.

Query 3: Every year, I ask for a pair of navy blue or red leather riding style boots. They do not exist. I don't understand why. I feel like they should, and that I cannot be the only one who thinks so. What's the deal?
Large Cat: Look, I understand. I feel like my dish should always be full of either albacore tuna or, at the very least, wet cat food. Keep hoping. I do.

Query 4: Our dog--
Large Cat: Next.

Query 5: I keep reading articles about tipping everyone at Christmas. Is this really necessary?
Large Cat: I don't think so. It sounds like a New York Thing to me. If you get regular service from the same people all the time, like a regular groomer or a regular mail carrier or pet sitter, then I would give them a tip. But tipping everyone sounds worky. And expensive. And tiring.

Query 6: Are gift bags okay to use, or are they tacky?
Large Cat: I really prefer boxes. They are cozy, and I can curl right up in them as long as they don't have some off-putting tissue paper in there. Gift bags tip over and require jumping and depth perception and quick risk-assessment.

Query 7: Is your Christmas shopping done?
Large Cat: I am a Gift Giver all year-round, and there are lint-rollers in two rooms to prove it. Sometimes I re-gift my breakfast.

Query 8: What do you want for Christmas?
Large Cat: A cat in the White House. Tuna every day. No more dog visits, ever. More quiet.

Query 9: With such impressive photos coming back from NASA's New Horizons spacecraft, and its myriad discoveries, do you think Pluto will be reassigned its planetary status within our solar system?
Large Cat: I wish.

This has been Ask A Large Cat, with Piper, resident Large Cat. The Dept. of Nance is pleased to be back after a Hiatus Of Sorts...sigh.

Today's Top Ten List: Lies My Parents Told Me

Growing up, my mother and father told me all kinds of things. On balance, most of them were Very Good Things, and I listened to a great deal of them. But like most parents, they also told me a lot of things that were simply Not True. Sometimes they were Nice Things, sometimes they were Comforting Things, and sometimes they were Folksy Things that were passed down for eleventy generations or merely things that became part of their DNA once my eldest sister Patti was born and the Parent Gene was flipped to the On position.

Here then are the

Top Ten Lies My Parents Told Me

1. You're Prettier Than All Of Those Contestants
2. Just Ignore Him/Her And He/She Will Leave You Alone
3. If You Don't Bother The Bees, They Won't Bother You
4. You Don't Need Makeup/Only Whores And Streetwalkers Wear Makeup
5. Piercing Your Ears Is A Tragedy
6. It's School, Not A Fashion Show
7. The Best Thing For A Headache Is Putting Your Hands In Warm Dishwater
8. 8th Grade Is Too Early To Be Shaving Your Legs
9. You Think Too Much
10. We're Not Having Any Pets In This House

I know. Bless their hearts.

1. Both Mom and Dad said this every single time we watched any beauty pageant throughout our lives, and they said it to all three of us girls. We all rolled our eyes because it was Patently Absurd. Some of those women were gorgeous and had perfect bodies. We, ranging in age from Patti--seven years my senior, to Susan, five years my junior, could not possibly imagine how any of this could be remotely true.

2. Absolute bullshit, and almost every day in my family it was proven False by my brother, who terrorized me daily with taunts about my weight. I could never suitably retaliate because he was invincible physically and emotionally. We're very close now, but growing up was hell.

3. Someone needed to tell the bees. I suffered an unprovoked attack--twice--while minding my own business. I didn't even disturb a nest or flight pattern. Ouch.

4. I was in my sophomore year when my mother found my mascara and face powder. She immediately tattled to my father, who gave me a terrible lecture, including the above quotes. Ironically, in later years, every time I would show up at Mom and Dad's without any makeup, my Dad would ask, "Are you feeling alright? You look pale and a little wan." Sigh.

5. In the seventies, everyone was wearing cute earrings. Except me. I waited until I was eighteen and went to the jeweler to get mine done so that I could do it without parental permission. When Dad found out, he was devastated. Somehow, though, I managed to survive it. So did he.

6. As everyone in the universe knows, School IS a Fashion Show. It shouldn't be, but it is. Even as a teacher, it was still, for me, a Daily Walk On The Runway.

7. Oh, St. Patsy, you really thought you were the clever one with this. We all knew what you were up to.

8. No! No, it wasn't! Not when you are mostly Eastern European and your legs looked like gorilla legs and you had to dress for gym. I ended up surreptitiously shaving them while home alone after school one day and took off about a foot of skin on my shinbone because I pushed too hard on the razor. That's another story.

9. St. Patsy still tells me that I Think Too Much. I am not one to brood, but I do analyze. But not overmuch, usually. How is Thinking a Bad Thing?

10. Oh, this one was the biggest lie of all, perpetuated by my mother. For a complete list of the TEN pets "not allowed" in our house and the full explanation, click here and read the post over at Stuff On Our List.

Your turn. What Little White Lies did Mom and Dad tell You?

The Dept. of Nance Is Ten!

The Dept of Nance is ten!

You know, I almost missed it. Ten years ago this month, I started writing here, and I'm still at it. Along the way, lots of things happened: I outlasted a president (twice!), a major hurricane, plenty of blizzards, and The Recession. I saw the election and re-election of the first Hawaiian President of the United States who also happens to be black. We've had three popes and three new Supreme Court Justices. Gay people can finally get married. Lebron James came back to Cleveland. Arthur Miller and JD Salinger died. Nutella finally got real and stopped advertising itself as part of a nutritious breakfast.

To celebrate the Dept.'s Tenth Anniversary, I've decided to do Ten Posts Of Top Ten Lists. Assisting me will be Jared, who not only gave me this idea, but who has also co-written some list posts with me before.

Today's Top Ten List will be just mine. But before I begin, let me thank all of you, Dearest Readers. In the early years, I was writing, it seemed, just for me. Then, suddenly, there You were. And I cannot tell you how Very Much Better it has been ever since.

Shall we on, then? Here is the list of

10 Things That Happened To Me In The Last 10 Years

1. Retirement
2. Text Messaging
3. Driving
4. The Radio
5. Cats
6. Frozen Shoulders
7. Leggings
8. Shrinkage
9. The Menopause
10. Fantasy Sports

These are, of course, in no particular order, and this is not a comprehensive list. A few do require brief explanation. A few do not, but I'll probably talk about them anyway.

1. Retirement continues to be blissful and wonderful, and it's a damn shame that I couldn't have started it much sooner. I cannot begin to tell you how gorgeous it is to be able to slide into my day in my jammies with a cup of coffee rather than jitter into it full bore with high heels and a broken copier and a screaming hallway full of recalcitrant tardies.

2. Oh, yes; absolutely I am The Person who said that I would never, ever tap away on a teensy keyboard to anyone, ever, and I do it regularly now, even to my 85-year old mother who has an iPad and sends me text messages right back. Please feel free to scream I TOLD YOU SO! with a big, smug smirky face. It's perfectly justified.

3. Previous to my retirement, I drove almost nowhere. I drove the Capital Beltway alone in dense fog earlier this summer. I used to be a fearful driver. Yesterday, I passed a dump truck. And a Mustang. At the same time. Laughing at them...because I drive a Prius.

4. When I was teaching, I could not stand to listen to the radio in my car. Maybe, maybe NPR for five minutes. But never music. It was too much for me. Now, I listen to music all the time. My current favourite: Shut Up and Dance by Walk The Moon.

5. In the past ten years I have sadly said goodbye to two cats, TravisCat and EmilyCat. I was blissfully hair-free for a few years, but lonesome for a pet. Enter Piper and Marlowe, whose hair is everywhere. I am on a Three Lint Roller Program: one in the car, one in the bedroom, one in the bathroom (where the light is merciless).

6. I had two bouts of adhesive capsulitis, one of which was misdiagnosed as a torn rotator cuff and for which I was operated on, unnecessarily as it turned out. What a horrid, horrid time this was, for everyone.

7. Yep! You get to feel superior again. I think I banished leggings in a post once; now, they're my fall and winter uniform. Do I make absolutely certain to wear something that tastefully and discreetly covers my derriere, like a tunic or long sweater or duster? Of course! Is said long overshirt loose and not clingy? Obviously. And I wear boots. That outfit is so much warmer than jeans or regular pants and shoes. Bash away at my Hypocrisy. I deserve your scorn.

8. In the course of the past ten years, I shrank from a size 10 down to a size 0. Part of it was from Topamax for migraines, part of it was illness. I settled in at a size 2 for a good long while until...

9. The Menopause. Basically, this is the stage in a woman's life when her body turns against her and gives her The Finger. Everything went to hell. My migraines went crazy. My weight went up. My skin and hair got dry and my nails got peely. Is it worth it to stop having to buy Tampax? Now that things have rebalanced...YES.

10. What in the hell am I, a retired English teacher, whose other interests are decidedly not sporty, and who has never played a sport in her entire life, doing with a Fantasy Basketball Team? For four years running? It's so, so silly. But I love it.

There's lots more, but that's pretty good right there.  Again, thank you so much for Being There.  Perhaps in Comments, you can tell me How Long You've Been There, and then you can tell us all what you've been up to in the past 10 Years.

Oh, and do have some cake!

littlecowcreativecakes.co.uk

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Wrapping Up The Wildlife Wars: Nothing Is Impossible

www.pcsoutdoors.com

"Rick," I said one day not too terribly long ago, "there is something in the garage. I'm serious. Some animal. It smells foul in there, and there's dirt on the hood of my car. Like from the flowerpots up in the loft."

It's important to note that my husband took in this News the same way he usually does, which is by Not Looking At Me while I deliver it, and then by giving not one single sign that he even heard it. I waited for approximately two minutes, and then I said, "Rick. I mean it. Some animal is living in there, and--"

He interrupted me calmly, slowly and patiently turning around to face me with a completely unchanged expression of relative disinterest. "Nance. First of all, I don't smell anything in there. And second, there is no way any animal can get in there. No way. It's impossible. There's no point of entry for anything. A bird could maybe get trapped in there and get a little dirt on your car, but that's about it. I'm telling you, it's nothing."

Shortly after that, several convincing Pieces Of Evidence presented themselves that convinced even Rick that We Were Not Alone: a broken flowerpot on the hood of my car; bite marks on all of the bags of potting soil; pawprints and scratches on a car door. It was time to Do Something, and for once, that Something did NOT involve the BB gun.

"Looks like I have to clean out this garage," he said. "Take everything out and see where the hell it is and see how it's getting in here." In Rick's defense, the garage was already pretty tidy. In no time at all I heard him yelling, and I ran out from the kitchen to see what was happening.

Rick emerged from the back of the garage, triumphant, a shovel in one hand and a bloody raccoon tail in the other. "Got him!" he said, smiling. "That sucker took off so fast! But I got his tail, anyway. He won't be back."

I was still standing there, my hand on my mouth--which was gaping--and my eyes staring at that bloody tail. Finally, I managed to recover myself. "But how did it get in there? And what if it does come back? What if it had babies in there? And what do you plan to do with that tail, for heaven's sake?"

Very soon, I had answers to all of those questions. The clever raccoon had pried off a soffit panel at the back of the garage and sneaked in that way. There was no nest, no babies, for it had no need--it could come and go at will through this access. And the tail was tacked to a nearby stud to serve as a deterrent and a trophy. Rick also fastened the soffit panels with roofing nails to prevent any more invasions.

We went to bed with easy minds that night.

But about three A.M., I was awakened by a loud metallic clunk from the basement. Rick, of course, did not hear it. I sat up and waited for it to repeat itself. When it did not, I still woke him. It had been loud and sounded bad, maybe mechanical. He had to check it out. We both crept down to the basement landing.

As soon as we neared the steps, a terrible stench assailed us. It stunk like something rotten or rotting. "Do you smell that?" I asked him. He nodded. Tears came to my eyes, an involuntary response from fear. I grabbed his arm as he reached for the light. "Be careful!" I whispered, which was stupid. We hadn't bothered to be quiet until now, and once we turned the light on, any hope of secrecy or surprise was long gone. He flipped the light switch, and we both stared in shock.

Trickling under the door to the right was a small stream of deep red. It was travelling inexorably to the drain just ahead of us near the bottom of the steps.

"Holy shit," said Rick with heartfelt piety. "What in the hell is that?"

We pushed open the door to a massacre scene. Deep red splatters covered the spare refrigerator and dripped down its full length. The stench was overwhelming and disgusting. The floor was covered; we instinctively turned to check the bottles of wine in the racks. Those racks contained a lot of money in reds, and...what was this?

One bottle was missing its cork. Instinctively, I looked at the floor. Sure enough, there it was. Rick was sliding the bottle out of the rack, careful not to spill any more of it. He took it over to the sink and poured it out: the remaining contents were a thick, putrid sludge of sediment. It was a bad bottle, probably the last of the run. That sediment had fermented and popped the cork, which hit the ductwork, producing that clank I had heard.

Mystery solved, but now we had a lot of smelly, messy work to do in the wee hours of the morning. As we started to gather our supplies, I turned to Rick. "I thought it was blood! I thought it was that damned raccoon, that somehow it got into the basement and bled to death in this house!" I said.

"Did you really?" he said, and he turned toward me. A patient, kind look illuminated his face. "Nance. There is no possible way that raccoon could ever get into this house."

The Rambo Moment: Wildlife Wars Continue, Part III

Back when the boys were quite little, we had a very, very wet spring and summer--quite a lot like the one we're having right now. Everything was soggy and waterlogged, and it seemed like all manner of creepy crawlies and varmints came out. Especially annoying was the influx of a skunk family who wandered up our driveway each night, left a scented greeting, and departed by dawn. Naturally, our neighborhood was blessed by a robust stray cat population, so altercations were frequent and fragrant. (Our bedroom windows overlook the driveway--did I mention that?)

It was also the Summer Of Spiders, and I felt as if I would never get rid of them. Or the Thousand-Leggers. This was The Time Before Cats as well, although I doubt seriously if EmilyCat or TravisCat would have been much help. Travis whined terribly when he encountered any bugs near his food dish, and Emily simply couldn't be bothered.

But I digress.

It was after dinner one day when we were in the living room. Sam suddenly pointed into the kitchen and said, "Kitty! Hi, kitty!" Sam was only about two, a toddler who had been slow to talk, and one of those kids who called all men Daddy and all drinks Juice. Anything, therefore, which was small and furry and walked on four legs was a Kitty. Horrified, I asked him to clarify. "Sam, what did you say? Where is a kitty?" He smiled excitedly and pointed into the kitchen. "Kitty in there!" he said.

"Rick," I said, sick and dreadful. "Something is in the kitchen." Somehow, I was able to make the boys stay in the living room while Rick went out to investigate. In short order he was back. "Nance, it's a mouse. I see where it went. It's behind the dishwasher now. I'm getting the BB gun."

I felt like I was in a bad action movie and that Rick was suffering a Sylvester Stallone delusion. What in the hell was he going to do to a mouse with a BB gun? And behind the dishwasher? "Rick!" I yelled, but it was too late. He had grabbed the gun, cocked it, and was going in.

"It's in the space under the counter, in the insulation. I can see it!" he said. I heard the gun pop, cock, then pop again. "Got it!" he said. "I really got it." There was a pause, then, "Where the hell did it go?" I heard him open the cupboards next to the dishwasher and rummage around, heard him open the drawer, and then a strangled yelp. "Dammit!" There were the sounds of a brief struggle, then his footsteps on the basement steps. Moments later, he came up and into the living room, smiling and triumphant. "Got him!" he said. "But I'll get some traps in case there are more. I hit him, too. He was bloody. He jumped out of the drawer and ran downstairs. But I got him."

Rambo's victory was short-lived, however. And the mouse was probably just a scout or the recon team.

A day or two later, I heard the snap of the trap behind the trashcan in the kitchen. I was home with only Jared and Sam, but I wasn't afraid to dispose of a mousetrap. As I walked over to the can, I was surprised to hear more noise. It sounded like the trap snapping over and over again. How could that be? I wondered. With trepidation, I slid the kitchen can away from the wall and took a look.

What I saw was huge, a mouse on steroids with its head caught in the trap, trying desperately to free itself by shaking its head back and forth, knocking the wooden trap on the tile floor each time. The thing had its mouth open, revealing sharp yellow teeth on top and bottom, a pink mouth open in a silent scream as it writhed right and left, right and left. Horrified, I swallowed my own scream, mindful that Sam and Jared were around somewhere, and I slid the can right back into place and tried to think of what on earth to do.

Rick was quite a ways off on a job site, and no way was I letting that thing back there until the end of the day. But I could not bring myself to touch it. I immediately thought of my colleague's husband Lou, who lived one street over. He was the dearest and kindest man, and he used to walk over to deliver his famous homemade soup to us. He would know what to do, and he would be my Knight In Shining Armor! I called Carol and explained the situation. "I'm sending him right over!" she said. "Lou will take care of everything. Don't worry about a thing, Nance," she said.

In moments Lou appeared through the yards across the street, carrying a paper bag, gloves, and a whisk broom. I wanted to kiss him. The Giant Mouse was still flopping, making noise behind my kitchen trash can. He took a moment to reassure me and then went to work while I stood in the next room. In less than a minute, he had taken the creature outside to my garbage cans and came back inside to talk to me.

"Nance," he said worriedly, "that's no mouse. That's a river rat. You need to tell Rick. Somehow, that came up from the river and got into your house, maybe through your basement or something. He needs to find where and take care of it. And you need bigger traps."

Rats. Can you possibly imagine? First bats and then rats. I was ready to burn the place down. I think that's exactly what I told Rick when we...discussed it later.

We avoided that eventuality by finding the old sump crock with outside access and plugging it up, ending our rat problem. And Rick remained fully clothed throughout.