We're from the country and....

We like it that way....

Well, sort of. I mean, I like the song. The kids and I sing the refrain loudly as I dodge deer daily on the road to my home. Perfect daughter makes me change the station when it comes on. She is most definitely NOT from the country and does NOT like it that way.

BUT....

Today I was changing in my bathroom. You know, a bathroom...sort of a sanctuary. A place to feel safe. The door locks. The shower has a curtain. It's all about privacy and safety and sweet-smelling creams and lotions. Yeah, right. As I started to comb my hair, it felt longer for some reason. Like there was a long strand down my back. EEEEEKKKKKEEEE. Something fell on me again. (See "Spielberg"). I screamed, just knowing it was a) another tarantula or, b) a scorpion. I felt almost relieved that it was a lizard. But really, a LIZARD? Why, why, why? Is there no place that creepy, crawly, flying things might fall, fly or crawl on me?

My best friend had called earlier to talk about the weekend. She has emus at her place. Yep, the big birds. It's very "Jurassic Park" around there, but you tend to get used to it after ten years. She is out of the emu-farming business, and now keeps a few birds "as pets". Whatever. I mean, to me, a bird should be small, yellow or brightly colored, and sing or talk. Emus as pets is just, um, eccentric, but then again, we are in Texas.

She asked me how my weekend was, and when I said my back hurt all weekend and I was miserable with that, she said, "Oh, I'm glad I didn't call you to help me shoot one of the birds." (I'll just interject here that I was glad she didn't either). Her hubby was traveling and she wasn't sure "what" attacked one of her emus (let me interject again to say, those birds are six feet tall and weigh 150 pounds and I'm thinking something REALLY scary must have attacked one), but "Five Toes" was terribly wounded and needed to be "put down" (with one humane bullet).

So, since her hubby was gone, she had to think of people to call to help. She decided to call her daughter's fiance's dad. Wow, welcome to the family, eh? The funny thing was how she described him--he's a city guy, and he showed up in impeccably pressed khaki pants, white button-down shirt, and loafers. You just don't see a lot of loafers in our town. ANYWAY, I was surprised because I call HER "ol' dead eye". I mean, she was sorting out which gun, finding which ammo and she really never misses (I've heard too many shoot-the-rabid-racoon stories from her). "Why did you ask him to do the shooting?", I asked. "Well", she said, "with the road being so close, I didn't want to miss". Oh yeah. Another downside to country living. Flying bullets. And not from gangs or criminals...from homeowners dealing with pesky critters and dying emus.

He came and took care of the poor bird. I didn't ask, but surely he missed any passing cars. They then went into the cage to drag it out, because as my sweet friend said, "If the other birds knew he was dead...."pause ominously. Let's just say, they aren't vegetarian. And yes, Jurassic Park came to mind again. She (and half the other people I know) generally will double-sack the dead animals and leave them for trash pickup. If there is one thing trash workers know about THIS town, it's "don't go looking through the trash". This time, she said, she was leaving the bird for her hubby to sack up and discard. Welcome home, dear.

But as we talked about critters and dealing with them, she told me another friend had a racoon-in-the-attic problem. This friend and her husband decided to arm themselves (honestly, does EVERYONE have a gun around here?) and go to either side of the attic to flush out the raccoon and shoot it as it exited the house. Only problem---once they were up in the attic, there was no sign of the critter. Hubby went downstairs for a beer. He came running back to tell his wife he found it... and, I really, truly am telling the truth...the raccoon was sitting on their couch, watching TV. How they finally dispatched it, I don't want to know, but I think it did entail getting a new couch. The odd/funny end to the story is that there were raccoon babies in the attic. They did actually trap and rescue them, but get this-- the "wildlife rescue lady" who took the baby racoons home trained them-- which ended with getting two of them semi-starring roles in Hollywood.

Really.

I keep thinking cockroaches are much worse than anything I deal with out here. But we never did need to haul out the shotgun when we saw one of those back in my city-living days. I do think they liked watching TV though. And the bathroom was NEVER safe.