I Saw the Sign

The owl came back!

So the artist formerly known as my Unit¹ and I were sitting outside on the patio steps again around 8 p.m. when Dogzilla raced straight across the yard to the back.  Sure enough, the owl was back because we saw her/him/them raise wings and effortlessly move to the right, out of Dogzilla's charge.

And we both oohed and ahhed.

And as before I immediately put the circus dog back inside (at just 13 lbs. he may very look like food to an ambitious bird of prey), and Dogzilla came bounding back to us with that look of, "OMG YOU GUYS DID YOU SEE THAT!?"

We went inside; I refilled my drink and immediately went back out to see if the owl would come back, but not before yelling down the stairs to my bird-nerd sister that "THE OWL IS BACK!"  Within moments of being outside again, s/he landed on the neighbor's swing set.  Bird-Nerd-Sister came outside quietly armed with binoculars.

We stayed out there for well over an hour, watching as the owl moved around, trying to hunt something on the lawn; sometimes s/he was very close to where we were sitting (well, close as far as I was concerned).  S/he is also still a big fan of the power line from the night before.  At one point s/he was "just walking on the tightrope," per my sister; there was a large tree in my view, but I could see the line bouncing a bit as the owl strutted.

We did, of course, take a moment to raise our glass to her/him/them.  Salut.

And because we are sisters, we argued a bit.

Bird-Nerd-Sister: "It's not a barn owl. It's definitely not a snowy. It's not a long-eared owl."
Me: (muttering) "Owls don't have ears."
BNS: "They do, too! They have holes in the side of their head for hearing."
Me: "Those are ear holes, not ears" (about to launch into the differences between seals and sea lions, including ear holes versus ear flaps)
BNS: "What kind of owl is it??"
Me: "You are asking the wrong-ass person." (beat) "What if it's here to give us our letters to Hogwart's??"
BNS: (laughing quietly)
Me: (hissing in owl's general direction) "You're late!"
BNS: (laughing more) "Here I thought we were going to argue about whose letter it was going to deliver, and you're busy sayin' 'bish, you're late.'"

And as before, when it got completely dark, the street lamp from across the way would catch the underside of the owl's wings and their breast feathers, especially during those brief flights.

Me: (soon insisting we refer to the owl as "she")
BNS: "As much as I hate to say it, it's probably a he. It's pretty small, and females are bigger."
Me: "Maybe it's a really small type of owl, and she's actually quite large."
Me: (happy gasp at another view of wings and light) "Oooh, it's like the opening of Labyrinth!" (another gasp) "What if it's the spirit of David Bowie??"
BNS: "That's it. I'm calling it 'Bowie' from now on."

Eventually my Bird-Nerd-Sister went inside, and I said aloud, "Well, it's just you and me, owl."  By the time I extinguished both of the citronella torches, Bowie had made it to the power line, the fence line, and then grass to my left (just beyond the torch I had just extinguished).  When I finally went inside (out of wine), they were back on the power line with no intention of going anywhere.

I may be the unofficial Queen of Small Animals, but birds are usually the exception.  If you know me at all, you know that I don't usually get along with birds, nor they with me.  The feeling is entirely mutual.  As I told my former Unit, I don't interact with Nature often, but when I do, it's always adventurous (read: "disastrous") and occasionally just a tiny bit awesome and magical.

And the former Unit commented earlier on all of the birds we've seen lately.  First, there was the hawk several times over a week or so.  "Hawks are messengers," she said.  "But I wasn't getting the message."

Then, within a day of our separation, there was the hummingbird.  Sometimes she saw it, once my sister saw it, but many times (like four times in two days), it was just me.  "Hummingbirds mean joy," she said.

And now the owl -- wisdom.

It may not seem like that big of a deal to you, but keep in mind all of these encounters have happened in the past month or so.  And frankly, a hummingbird?  In the Midwest?!?  I've never seen one outside of California before.

I'm not always one to believe in real-life "signs" and symbolism, but when the former Unit listed them outright like that, I had a shiver go up my spine, despite the summer heat.





¹We are in the process of separating.

The Joys of Working from Home

So sometimes you're loading dishes into the dishwasher (while on your "lunch break"), and Dogzilla comes to "help" (she likes to lick the dirty plates and silverware). And then WHOOSH! Suddenly the bottom rack is yanked right out of the dishwasher!
...because something is snagged on Dogzilla's collar, and then she's freaking out because an entire rack of dishes is following her, and you're trying to get her to be still to un-snag the offensive item from her collar. But she manages to violently wrangle herself free, breaking one of your nice(r) wine glasses in the process. So then you have to keep everyone calm and sitting still and DON'T WALK THERE! while you clean up broken glass from the kitchen floor.

Good thing I go back to the office tomorrow.

Playing Possum

Last night, I came directly home after the show because I was hot and tired and in pain.  I was just going to take the dogs out and then go to bed, no excitement.....EXCEPT

...within seconds of being outside, Dogzilla has something in her mouth; 2 seconds after that, the circus dog wants in on the action.  I yell at her, which just makes her play with it more.  There's no squeaking or anything, so maybe it's not an animal?  (Or maybe it's already dead.)

I approach her slowly because if you run at her, she'll just run across our gianormous yard (with thing still in her mouth), thinking it's a game.  As soon as I'm within arm's length, I grab her collar, saying "Drop it."  But I can't see what "it" is (it's super dark outside at 10:30 p.m. in the county, y'all).  It's clear she's not going to leave it alone, so I prepare to drag/walk her inside by the collar.  Except she doesn't have her regular collar on (WTF?!?), something I failed to notice to before going outside.  So I lead her by the glow-in-dark LED collar we make them both wear at night (see above:  dark outside), but gingerly because

1. said LED collar can slip right over her head and
2. it's also a break-away collar

In fact, it DOES "break away," and so I grab her by the scruff with my cat-like reflexes so she can't run back to "i"t and then drag/walk 65+ pounds of dog back into the house, by her fur, with the circus dog running around my heels (his glow-in-the-dark collar still in tact).

I passive-aggressively wake up my sleeping Unit by saying loudly, "Rosie, where is your collar??"  A groggy, "Oh, it's in here" comes as a response.
"She found something in the yard," I announce.  "I don't know what it is," but I grab my phone and go outside to find out if it's still there or what.

My phone isn't giving enough light (and I deleted the flashlight app a long time ago), so I use the flash on the camera by snapping two quick pics revealing "it" to be....

a smallish possum.

Shit.

Back inside.  "It's a possum," I announce.  "Rosie killed a possum.  Or maybe it was already dead; I don't know."
Groggy mumbling in return.

And now I'm torn.  I don't want to go back outside, in the dark, and put the dead body in the trash can.  What if it's not really dead?  What if it's just, y'know, "playing possum"?  What if I try to grab it and it bites me??  And so I whine.  "Do I have to do it now?  I don't want to grab it in the dark!"

"But I don't know where it is!" is her rsponse, which translates into:  "I don't know what section of the yard to keep Dogzilla away from when I take her out at 4 a.m. because she will immediately try to 'play' with the dead animal again."
"And you're awake!" she adds (no translation necessary).

I sigh.  And find the one pink latex kitchen glove we have left (used the others in previous dead-body-tossings) and grab my phone and head back outside for a third time.  On my way out, I remember we do actually have a light for the back patio (duh!),  so I turn it on in an attempt to make things less icky/scary.

And then I grab a stick from the patio on my way to the possum.

Glove on one hand, stick and camera (using the flash on the "video" part now) in the other, I make my way back to the possum.  It's still there.  So I poke at it with a stick.

Nothing.

Poke.  Poke.

Still nothing.

Damn, it looks really gross.  Is it breathing?  I can't tell.  What if it bites me?!?!
Oh God.

And randomly, Damn, its tail is tail is a lot longer than I thought it would be.

Still using the phone for a light and keeping the stick for "self-defense," I very slowly pick up the possum's limp, furry body with my gloved hand.
Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod.

Nothing happens, but the possum is bigger than my hand.  So it's not a baby.  Maybe a teenaged possum?  (In its defense, Leonard does have delicate, lady-like hands.)

I'm standing, possum in one (gloved) hand, phone and stick in the other (non-gloved) hand and I find myself at a (figurative) cross-road.  Do I put the possum in one of our trash bins, like we have previous dead animals?  Or do I dump it somewhere else?  What if it's not really dead and gets stuck in the trash bin?  What if it's not really dead but tossing it over the fence causes a concussion or internal hemorrhaging?  What if it IS dead, so who the fuck cares??  Trash bins are to the right; to the left is the edge of yard with a fence and a drainage ditch on the other side.  Fence/drainage ditch is closer -- decision made!

I do a weird quick walk/not run to the fence, furry body jiggling in hand and try to "gently" drop the possum over the fence.  And I wince.  "Sorry, possum!"
Then quickly go back the other direction to the trash bins to ditch my pink latex glove only to discover a giant spider web between trash can and house that I nearly walk into.  Jesus!

Glove gone, go back inside.  Except I still have to take Dogzilla back outside to pee because she didn't do that the first time around.  Fuck.  She, of course, inspects the area where the artist formerly known as a possum was hanging out, not believing me as I say repeatedly, "It's gone, Rosie."  We come back inside for the fourth and final time.

I wash my hands, put on pj's, and then -- convinced that I'm going to have nightmares about possums -- look up on my phone (whilst lying in bed) how to tell if possums are really dead or just "playing" dead.

90% sure said possum was just "playing" dead (thanks, Interwebs!).

Update from this morning:  possum is no longer in the ditch.  Either s/he "woke up" and left or some other, larger animal ate it.

Last but not least, this all reminds me of a bit of perfect casting:  William Shatner as the father possum in Over the Hedge.  He does a Shakespearean-esque death monologue except

he. does it. in. the Shat. ner. style.

Fucking brilliant.