Insomnia Intruder Instructions Inhumane
No, I'm not practicing my "I" spelling words. I'm not alphabetizing.
I am trying to connect the happenings in my last 24 hours. Though
They're not in any type of order, either.
Last night I couldn't sleep. I watched Saturday Night Live with
Jack Black. I watched some Food Network wedding food shows,
but that just wasn't my cup of tea. No hog jowls or pickled pigs'
feet. Around 3:00 a.m., I went to bed.
But no. That doesn't mean I went to sleep. I heard things. Things,
people. Not the usual dogs-yapping-running-around-the-porch
things. Walking. Around the porch. Pushing on the french doors
to my bedroom. Knocking on the front door. I could take it no
longer. I got up again. I knew the front door wasn't locked. I'd
seen it on my way to bed and forgot to go back and lock it.
Normally, this wouldn't bother me. We live in an isolated area.
There is no thru traffic. It's a private road. But last night, I thought
of how our neighbors down the road had a yard sale for two days.
And people came, people! From a sign out by the county road,
they drove a couple miles, then up the gravel road, then turned to
get to the actual yard sale. So there were strangers out here. And
if they were looky-loo strangers, they would have gone up the
road past my house. There is no outlet. It loops them back around.
Yes. Hillbilly Mom has no outlet. Perhaps that is why she is so
easily PISSED OFF by people.
Then I started thinking about that Richard Ramirez, the Night
Stalker guy. How he randomly picked a house and went in and
killed the whole family. Mr. K loaned me that book. Thanks, Mr.K,
It's the loan that keeps on giving. I also thought how I leave my
purse on the kitchen counter. Even if the intruder didn't want to
murder us in our sleep, he might want a 7-year-old purse. And it
has my winning scratch-off tickets in it!
I went to the front door and peeped out the wavy glass panel.
I couldn't see anybody or anything. I opened the door. There
were those blasted poopies. They were not tussling and barking
as usual. They each had a femur bone of some kind, about 14
inches long. Perhaps they'd found "Fitty's" stash. Or perhaps
Fitty, the 55-Gallon Barrel Killer himself, was lurking around the
corner, having plied my vicious guard dogs with a treat from the
bottom of one of his barrels. The poopies licked my hand and
breathed their bony breath on me, then went back to gnawing.
I guess one of them had wagged a tail and thumped the front
door twice to simulate my knock.
Which brings me to the tale of picking up Ann-dog from her stay
at the vet. We all went, because we went out to lunch, and then
HH was going to put in some steps for my grandma while I took
the dog home. It was 95 degrees. She couldn't loll around in the
pet carrier in the back of the truck all afternoon. HH stepped up
to the counter and announced that he was here to pick up his
dog, that he had brought her in yesterday to be "spay". That is
one of my pet peeves (heh heh, 'pet' peeves). Why can't people
learn the proper usage of this word? HH was as bad as those
people who say they took their dog to be "spaded".
Anyhoo, upon recovering from HH's embarrassing sterilization
faux pas, it was time for another shock when the bill came to
$452.40. Oh, it wasn't that much for the spaying. HH had sprung
for a round of Frontline for all the pets. 3 dogs and 5 cats, people.
A three-month supply. That might cut into my lottery money!
Ann was glad to see us, which she showed by refusing to come
out of the back room, then hunkering on the floor like she was
ready for her thrice-daily beating, then squirming across the
concrete to lick my feet. She didn't want to go out the door, so
#1 son drug her by the leash. Once out of sight of witnesses, she
trotted along to the large SUV like a show-dog on a lead. Her
instructions were: half a pain pill twice a day, keep the area clean
and dry, watch for infection, keep her quiet, and bring her back
to have the stitches removed in 7-10 days. Yeah. Right.
Upon arriving home, we found that Ann had peed herself in the
pet carrier. #1 dropped her leash, and she ran under the camper
(the 5th wheel in the front yard) to greet her long-lost brother,
Cubby. She wallowed around in their dirt hole for a bit, then was
coaxed out to get the leash removed. She galloped around the
yard with Cubby. After her pain med, she wobbled around the
back porch looking for me. I was down by the pool, calling her
name. She stuck her head through the rail, the blue-and-red
braided nylon chew rope that came 'free' with the butt-load of
Frontline hanging from her lips like a limp cigar. She looked
stoned out of her mind. This morning, she disappeared for a
couple hours in a thunderstorm, and turned up soaking wet.
So much for her convalescence instructions.
Around 10:00 this morning, #1 son gave Ann her pain med again.
At 1:00, I found her on the porch, chewing on a rawhide string.
Or so I thought. I went to take it away, because I didn't feel like
footing the bill for exploratory surgery if it became lodged in her
small intestine. Silly me! It wasn't a rawhide string. It was a snake.
A dead snake, with all the meat chewed out of it, about a foot long
if I stretched it out. Which I didn't. I did pick it up, to show HH,
who was around back watching the kids in the pool. He thought
it might be a copperhead, since we kill several of them a year.
That thing stunk! HH determined that it was just a baby black
snake. Though it wasn't black. It had a white belly, and a grayish
green crosshatch pattern on its back. So much for this episode
of "HH, Herpetologist".
Those darn poopies are just animals, I tell you! And the cats, too.
#1 son saw our hateful white long-haired calico eating a lizard by
the barn the other day. "She just played with it a while first, Mom.
She'd act like she was letting it go, then bite it again. Then she ate
it while it was still moving." Today, Cubby had a bloody ear. It
looks like a sliver of skin has been sliced loose. He drug his head
around on the ground for a while. Maybe Ann will lick it for him,
so her doggy saliva can heal it. Cubby was chasing off the big
Black Lab who belongs to the neighbors this morning. It usually
runs away in horror from the commotion, but he might have fought
it. He is very agressive with animals, but won't come near people.
Maybe the poopies took the snake away from the cats, who have
been known to put up a fight for their bounty. One time the cats
had a dead rabbit (bigger than the cats) and fought off Grizzly until
they were good and ready to give it up.
I suppose it's time to stop expecting my animals to be humane to
other animals.
I am trying to connect the happenings in my last 24 hours. Though
They're not in any type of order, either.
Last night I couldn't sleep. I watched Saturday Night Live with
Jack Black. I watched some Food Network wedding food shows,
but that just wasn't my cup of tea. No hog jowls or pickled pigs'
feet. Around 3:00 a.m., I went to bed.
But no. That doesn't mean I went to sleep. I heard things. Things,
people. Not the usual dogs-yapping-running-around-the-porch
things. Walking. Around the porch. Pushing on the french doors
to my bedroom. Knocking on the front door. I could take it no
longer. I got up again. I knew the front door wasn't locked. I'd
seen it on my way to bed and forgot to go back and lock it.
Normally, this wouldn't bother me. We live in an isolated area.
There is no thru traffic. It's a private road. But last night, I thought
of how our neighbors down the road had a yard sale for two days.
And people came, people! From a sign out by the county road,
they drove a couple miles, then up the gravel road, then turned to
get to the actual yard sale. So there were strangers out here. And
if they were looky-loo strangers, they would have gone up the
road past my house. There is no outlet. It loops them back around.
Yes. Hillbilly Mom has no outlet. Perhaps that is why she is so
easily PISSED OFF by people.
Then I started thinking about that Richard Ramirez, the Night
Stalker guy. How he randomly picked a house and went in and
killed the whole family. Mr. K loaned me that book. Thanks, Mr.K,
It's the loan that keeps on giving. I also thought how I leave my
purse on the kitchen counter. Even if the intruder didn't want to
murder us in our sleep, he might want a 7-year-old purse. And it
has my winning scratch-off tickets in it!
I went to the front door and peeped out the wavy glass panel.
I couldn't see anybody or anything. I opened the door. There
were those blasted poopies. They were not tussling and barking
as usual. They each had a femur bone of some kind, about 14
inches long. Perhaps they'd found "Fitty's" stash. Or perhaps
Fitty, the 55-Gallon Barrel Killer himself, was lurking around the
corner, having plied my vicious guard dogs with a treat from the
bottom of one of his barrels. The poopies licked my hand and
breathed their bony breath on me, then went back to gnawing.
I guess one of them had wagged a tail and thumped the front
door twice to simulate my knock.
Which brings me to the tale of picking up Ann-dog from her stay
at the vet. We all went, because we went out to lunch, and then
HH was going to put in some steps for my grandma while I took
the dog home. It was 95 degrees. She couldn't loll around in the
pet carrier in the back of the truck all afternoon. HH stepped up
to the counter and announced that he was here to pick up his
dog, that he had brought her in yesterday to be "spay". That is
one of my pet peeves (heh heh, 'pet' peeves). Why can't people
learn the proper usage of this word? HH was as bad as those
people who say they took their dog to be "spaded".
Anyhoo, upon recovering from HH's embarrassing sterilization
faux pas, it was time for another shock when the bill came to
$452.40. Oh, it wasn't that much for the spaying. HH had sprung
for a round of Frontline for all the pets. 3 dogs and 5 cats, people.
A three-month supply. That might cut into my lottery money!
Ann was glad to see us, which she showed by refusing to come
out of the back room, then hunkering on the floor like she was
ready for her thrice-daily beating, then squirming across the
concrete to lick my feet. She didn't want to go out the door, so
#1 son drug her by the leash. Once out of sight of witnesses, she
trotted along to the large SUV like a show-dog on a lead. Her
instructions were: half a pain pill twice a day, keep the area clean
and dry, watch for infection, keep her quiet, and bring her back
to have the stitches removed in 7-10 days. Yeah. Right.
Upon arriving home, we found that Ann had peed herself in the
pet carrier. #1 dropped her leash, and she ran under the camper
(the 5th wheel in the front yard) to greet her long-lost brother,
Cubby. She wallowed around in their dirt hole for a bit, then was
coaxed out to get the leash removed. She galloped around the
yard with Cubby. After her pain med, she wobbled around the
back porch looking for me. I was down by the pool, calling her
name. She stuck her head through the rail, the blue-and-red
braided nylon chew rope that came 'free' with the butt-load of
Frontline hanging from her lips like a limp cigar. She looked
stoned out of her mind. This morning, she disappeared for a
couple hours in a thunderstorm, and turned up soaking wet.
So much for her convalescence instructions.
Around 10:00 this morning, #1 son gave Ann her pain med again.
At 1:00, I found her on the porch, chewing on a rawhide string.
Or so I thought. I went to take it away, because I didn't feel like
footing the bill for exploratory surgery if it became lodged in her
small intestine. Silly me! It wasn't a rawhide string. It was a snake.
A dead snake, with all the meat chewed out of it, about a foot long
if I stretched it out. Which I didn't. I did pick it up, to show HH,
who was around back watching the kids in the pool. He thought
it might be a copperhead, since we kill several of them a year.
That thing stunk! HH determined that it was just a baby black
snake. Though it wasn't black. It had a white belly, and a grayish
green crosshatch pattern on its back. So much for this episode
of "HH, Herpetologist".
Those darn poopies are just animals, I tell you! And the cats, too.
#1 son saw our hateful white long-haired calico eating a lizard by
the barn the other day. "She just played with it a while first, Mom.
She'd act like she was letting it go, then bite it again. Then she ate
it while it was still moving." Today, Cubby had a bloody ear. It
looks like a sliver of skin has been sliced loose. He drug his head
around on the ground for a while. Maybe Ann will lick it for him,
so her doggy saliva can heal it. Cubby was chasing off the big
Black Lab who belongs to the neighbors this morning. It usually
runs away in horror from the commotion, but he might have fought
it. He is very agressive with animals, but won't come near people.
Maybe the poopies took the snake away from the cats, who have
been known to put up a fight for their bounty. One time the cats
had a dead rabbit (bigger than the cats) and fought off Grizzly until
they were good and ready to give it up.
I suppose it's time to stop expecting my animals to be humane to
other animals.
posted by Hillbilly Mom at 3:02 PM
8 Comments:
I can imagine you standing on your front porch calling "Ann, Ann! Come get your pain meds!"
I would gladly come running.
I just got my dog spayed too, and agree that the post-surgery instructions are impossible. I kept her from running and playing for a full week, then finally gave in and unleashed her today.
Miss Ann,
Yes, you would come running. But imagine your disappointment when all I gave you was Benadryl. Hey! It worked for your broken arm, didn't it? Mom knows best.
The difference here is that you TOOK CARE of your dog. I was trying to get rid of mine. At least you kept yours in the house and didn't let her coat her pee-covered flanks with dirt.
Fitty, the 55-Gallon Barrel Killer himself,
Perhaps it's a Big Blogger contestant with their FittyMaid containers :-)
(yes, I am feeling better)
Cats are good at killing snakes.
Almost as good as dogs locating crocodiles.
Hi Hillbilly Mom,
Those pills your Ann has seem to really do the job. Maybe you should share them, it might help with your sleeping problems.
On second thought, why not just give them to HH, that way he might stop racking up the bills on behalf of the pets.
HooRoo
Rebecca
I enjoyed reading here, your house sounds like fun!
Lantern,
Hmm...maybe it IS Redneck Diva trying to spook me! Our cats are good at killing lots of things. Perhaps the Diva should watch her step.
Bec,
HH used to have an old man friend about 89 years old. He took his dog's pills to stop pain in his legs. Who knew?
HH is good at spending money. He would be a gold-medal winner in the Money-Spending Olympics.
Barngoddess,
I believe you'll fit right in with our crowd.
I'm glad you weren't alphabetizing because those words were definitely not in alphabetical order. I was worrying about your teaching skillz - thought maybe summer had flattened your brain waves.
Diva,
I know someone who alphabetizes her canned goods expects order on my blog, but it ain't happenin', sistah!
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