The Opposite of Foreplay

Today, as I drove into the backyard, I saw something hustling along the fence line that, well, just didn't look right.

By stating that, let me just go ahead and admit that we have a rat. Full-blooded, rodent-style, rat.

The glass half full girl in me decided to make lemonade out of the lemons, so I named him Ratatouille, after the cute movie mouse. I fully expect that sucker to be in this here kitchen helping out any.day.now. Otherwise, the prescribed rat-poison-that-makes-rats-thirsty-and-drives-them-out-of-their-nest-before-they-die-an-unseemly-death is being purchased and chucked in the attic above our garage.

It's either earn your keep or croak. That's how serious I am about chores around here. Got it, Mr. R?

So, when I couldn't quite identify this thing moving along the ground, I assumed Ratatouille had invited a friend for a visit of the premises. But, strolling the grounds during the daytime has never been the modis operandi of our resident rodent, so I had to get a closer look.

Turned out, it was a squirrel. But not just any squirrel. A squirrel that was completely paralyzed in the hind quarters. And was, thus, dragging his back legs by using all the might in his front legs.

At that moment, there was an expletive in my mind just dying to get out.

Somehow, if it is hurt, injured or stupid AND it has fur, I manage to find it. And feel incredibly responsible for it. And either kill it trying to save it or manage to track down the one human being on planet Earth that knows the feeding habits of armadillos and skunks and whatever hunk of fur has managed to attach itself to me in that moment.

To add insult to injury, the dogs were in the backyard. How their keen sense of smell hadn't managed to kick in is beyond me. They can smell bacon frying from 100 miles away. But a paraplegic squirrel apparently doesn't let off any odor at all.

As I watched this thing move along the fence, my heart breaking every agonizing pull of the way, all the sudden the dogs olfactory glands kicked into high gear and they BOLTED for the source of my pity.

Literally, time went into slow motion as teeth and fur collided and this AWFUL high-pitched squeal/scream/what-the-hell-was-that? noise emanated from the squirrel.

I did what any responsible pet owner would do: I started screaming at the top of my lungs at Tex and Doug. Because, after all, shouldn't they recognize they are attacking something defenseless and pitiful? Being a carnivore, in that moment, was no excuse.

Apparently, my screaming was so loud that Mike heard it in his office and came sauntering* out the back door.

Why are you yelling at the dogs? he wanted to know.

Because they are attacking a squirrel that is paralyzed! I shouted back.

And that is when my husband ruined any chance of having sex that evening. He threw his hand over his mouth and STARTED LAUGHING.

Now, whether he was laughing at the predicament of the squirrel (barbarian!) or at me (for being compassionate?) didn't really matter in that moment. I threw on my squinty, "REALLY?" eyes, just to drive home my point.

Turns out, while we were busy pulling dogs back from their afternoon snack and certifying our celibate evening plans, our furry buddy managed to figure out how to climb one of the crepe myrtles.

It was an impressive feat. We watched him until he was at a safe height and I did what I do best: went into "How am I going to save this animal?" mode.

The vet had no idea what to do with him. "Call animal control?" was the best they could do. Shoot, I could have hit my mangled friend with a shovel to put him out of his misery. That's about what animal control would do.

NEXT!

While I was scouring the Internet for a wildlife rehabilitation volunteer, like the one I used LAST TIME a baby squirrel decided to make Hooman's backpack his home, Mr. Squirrel decided we were all too loud and obnoxious to stay in the backyard. And, out of the tree, into another yard he went.

Mike on the other hand? Every time I looked at him this afternoon? He woud start laughing again. But I could tell he was trying to salvage the evening by trying to figure out the best excuse for his response to another insanely bizarre animal incident involving his wife.

Poor guy. Just like that darn squirrel, he can't seem to catch a break.


*Not running. No, more like a senior shuffle to the buffet line to see what's for dessert.