Animals stone-cold hate me. Remember the self-destructive squirrel I encountered on my first official date with Caleb? Yeah well. I always thought the squirrels in Escambia County, Florida became suicidal when they saw me coming. I now suspect their kamikaze attacks were part of a bigger conspiracy, designed to aggravate me into an early, heart-attack-induced grave.
Our barn swallows are back. The ones that I so worked so diligently to get rid of? Day after day of scraping their mud nests off the brick in my entryway, swinging brooms and bats (and 8 ft long 2X4s) in their general direction they tried to fly near the front of my house. Shoe-bombing them in the middle of the night and whatnot. They’re back and they’re taking one more shot at claiming my front porch as official barn swallow territory.
I know we had allowed them to make their home here for the past 6 years, but no longer. It’s not like they’re taking care of our wasp problem. I am tired of bird poop on my front step; tired of waking up to their obnoxious chirping at 5:00 in the morning, and of being swooped in the back of the head every time I dare enter or exit through my front door.
THIS. ENDS. NOW.
Maybe I’ll just cook up some scrambled eggs and eat them outside, just to show them what I’m capable of.
The skunk–Really, God? Really? This animal has tremendously affected my home life. Its stench reeks all over my house. The dog herself smells not so much like skunk anymore (especially since the other dogs peed on her, probably in a last-ditch effort to de-stink their breathing space.) But I promise you, I catch a whiff of nasty every time I walk by the couch. It makes me want to cry, and so I scream at my dogs, “You see? This is why we don’t have nice things!”
Indeed. If they’re not jacking up the inside of my house, they’re hard at work destroying the outside. My sad little plants I’ve so carefully cultivated in my flower bed this year–I even went so far as to surround the flower bed with a 3 foot high wire fence to prevent the dogs from peeing on my precious sprouts–honeysuckle vine, bushy-reddish/purpley-leafy plants, and these nifty things called larkspur that I grew from actual seeds–completely and utterly sabotaged when Darcy decided to jump the fence in pursuit of a wee toad.
And, okay–the toads–not a day goes by that I don’t uncover one or two from my flower bed. I then promptly give the toad or toads to Merrick, who in turn
mercilessly tortures carries the animal around for about 4 hours. Sometimes he takes it for a swim in the kiddie pool. Sometimes he puts the toad on his head, and other times, he just stands there with the toad squeezing the crap out of it. And when I’ve had enough of my son with his toad, we take part in a perfectly humane froggy relocation program and drop the toad down by the drainage ditch on the far side of the yard.
And the toad always comes straight back to the house to dig up my plants, leave turds on my sidewalk, and relentlessly taunt my dogs.
It’s only mid-July. I think now would be a good time to barricade ourselves away from Mother Nature and her deceptively innocent animal assassins, safe and sound and inside our house…
If it weren’t for that smell.