Most of you know that I'm not what you might call an 'outdoorsy' person. I believe that nature is best viewed through a pane of glass, preferably with a adult-like fruity drink in hand. And you know that I'm sideways with dolphins, believe that bunnies are up to far more than everyone thinks, and find woodland creatures on the whole to be vile and abhorrent in every way.
It's as if the nasty creatures of the world KNOW I don't like them and mock me by rubbing my fur the wrong way. Friday night, though, Friday night they tested me beyond what I can take.
It's on. Bring it, woodland creatures. *puts up fists*
I got home Friday night really, really late. With no husband, no kids, I stayed out until two o'clock! I'd forgotten that there were two of those in a day. Anyhow, I got home and immediately went inside to let the dogs in. I knew they'd be hacked; it was way past their bedtime and Kate's a lot like me with her view on nature. I was so intent on letting them in the house that I didn't immediately close the overhead garage door behind me.
It's a rookie move in the zombie apocalypse scenario and you hate to see it.
By the time I remembered to go close it, as I was going through the house making sure that all the hatches were battened down so that my brain would remain zombie free, it was probably 2:30 and I heard something move in the garage when I opened the door.
My first thought? Damn it, I KNEW I should have learned how to use one of the fourteen million weapons in the house. I don't even know where my Louisville slugger is.
And then I saw the bandit. Literally. It was a raccoon. A freaking raccoon had wandered into the garage, smelled the dog food we keep in a big, sterilite container, OPENED IT, and was proceeding to chow down.
A freaking RACCOON.
A RACCOON, y'all.
I'm not making this up.
Lord, have mercy.
At this point I know that I have to get the nasty little bugger out of my garage, and I have to do it by myself. My father-in-law has come and emptied mousetraps when Nolan's been gone, but I don't think his cheerfulness and philanthropy would extend to raccoons in the wee hours of the morning. So I did what any other red-blooded, Texan girl would do who doesn't have a pistol handy.
I grabbed the most vicious of all the raccoon fighting weapons: a push broom.
The raccoon was wholly unimpressed with my brandishing of the push broom and my shout of "Get on out of here!" Evidently our dog food is gourmet fare for varmints. The thing looked up, as if it was bored, and then proceeded to GO BACK TO EATING.
Frankly, I was a little at a loss of what to do. Raccoon are known to sometimes be rabid, and it would be my stinking luck that the raccoon that wandered into my life would bite me and I would die, and no one would know until I didn't show up for my South Pacific call the next day.
Just when I was looking around for something a bit more fierce than a broom (I was actually eying the weed eater), Katie started barking.
Praise GOD. Katie's fierce bark (that she only pulls out when she's been left outdoors for too long or someone questionable comes to the door) was enough to get the coon's attention and it ambled out the door, STILL not in a hurry.
I closed the garage door when it was out, keeping vigilant watch with my broom until it was shut all the way.
So I lived.
I may not, though when Nolan comes back and finds that I've torn the crap out of Colin, the Sexy, Black Toyota Sequoia's running board by driving over a big ass decorative rock in the Rudy's parking lot.
It's been sort of a weekend.
But I'm pleased to announce that goeungurl, filia_umbrae, and eustacia_vye are the winner's of last month's contest. You'll be receiving your Gap cards in the mail A.S.A.P. All of your stories are fabulous, and I intend to comment at length when I have a moment to do it properly.
Everyone enjoy the rest of your weekend. May it be raccoon and zombie-free.