Ant In My Pant(s)

Dewie and I were sitting on the porch this morning with our delicious coffee beverages, arguing about whose turn it was to bathe the dog.

“I’m pretty sure I did it last. Remember, because I had to ask you to get her up on the benches because she was being all belligerent and whatnot and she weighs 700 pounds,” Dewie proudly and overconfidently stated.

“That’s true, but you’re forgetting the last time was when I was watching the kids and we tromped through the flooded cornfield. I gave her a bath before we went in the house, Mistaken Wrongington from Incorrectville. Should I do my victory dance now, or wait until you’re covered in soap and dog hair?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot that one.”

“OWWW! Son of a… What the hell?!?” Suddenly the back of my knee is on fire. I start slapping at my pants like a deranged bongo player.

“What’s the matter?”

“Stings! Holy @#$%ing SH@#! For the love of all that is holy get it out!”

“What is it? Is it a bee?”

“I DON”T KNOW!!! I can’t see through my pants!” I frantically pull up my pant leg searching for whatever is trying to murder me.  Nothing. I can’t find anything. I drop the pant leg thinking whatever it was has escaped its horrible cotton prison. Immediately it starts again. “What the hell?! OWWWW! JEEEZ. STUPID #$%^ER!!!!” Alright, now I’m in a panic. I start to take my pants off.

Dewie screams at me, “Where is your underwear?!”

“They’re pajamas! Who wears underwear with pajamas?!”

“Well at least go in the house first!” 

“What if it gets away inside the house?! It’s MELTING MY FLESH OFF! Do you want that crawling into the bed?!

“You’re not showing your ass to the neighborhood! We’ll catch it. GO INSIDE!”

I stumble in the door, desperately tugging at my pants. I brush my legs in case it’s still stuck to me.  My knee pit is covered in welts, but the perpetrator is still on the lam. I turn the pants inside out and a single winged ant is crawling around on the inside of one leg. One ant. Sometimes I hate Florida. 

The Collar

A few days ago, our mama kitty, Sawyer came home with two puncture wounds on her hiney, like she was running away from something and it just got a piece of her nubby bob tail. She doesn’t go very far from the house because she’s old and lazy so I’m guessing it was the new neighbor’s puppy that they’re keeping in the backyard. So I clean her up and evaluate the damage. Two puncture wounds, not deep and a little rippage, no need for stitches. No problem. I clean it up and pack the holes with antibiotic cream, give her some sympathy loving and send her on her way.

The next morning at chow time I check the wounds again and find that she has chewed off the skin around the holes and now has two silver dollar sized open, oozing, bleeding wounds. I should have seen this coming. This cat is crazy neurotic anyway. I should have known she’d be a picker. I tried to explain to her that there will always be an edge to the owie and continuing to clean it back will only make the owie bigger, but she just looked at me with confused, wide eyes as if to say, “Have you seen what’s wrong with my ass? Why aren’t you doing something?” So for her own good, to keep her from skinning herself, we pull out the collar. The most ridiculous invention on earth, and yet the only thing that is in anyway effective when dealing with pickers. I wrap the cone around her tiny little head and clean the now giant wound again. When I sit her on the floor she seems confused. She stands perfectly still like she’s afraid the thing might be alive. This is a good thing. For the next few days she’ll just sit there while those Silence of the Lambs wounds heal. It is not to be. Sawyer slowly starts to back up, like she might have her head stuck in a jar.  Try as she might, she cannot back out of this contraption on her head. She does this for a good 15 minutes, and as sad as it is, I can’t help but be amused. Then suddenly she’s had enough. Sawyer flies into a rage and starts to fly around the room, still running backwards, with all her tiny might. She bangs the wounds into the walls, chairs, shelves leaving defiant smears of blood all over the room. This is both horrifying and hilarious.  I call Dewie into the room.

“What the hell is she doing?” (Bam! Conk. Bang!)

“I don’t think she likes the cone.” (Bonk! Bang! Bang!)

“Why is she running backwards?” (Thud! Bam!)

“She’s trying to back out of it…really fast.” (Bang! Bang! Thud!)

“That cat is so crazy.”  (Bam! Bam!)

“Right? I’ll pick her up and try to settle her down if you clean up the blood.”

“Gross.”

“She’s clearly not happy, so do you want to deal with your blood or hers?”

“Hers.”

I bend down to catch Sawyer, which isn’t as hard as it seems because she’s still moving backwards and bumping into things like a pinball machine. I try to cuddle her and she is surprisingly compliant. I lay a towel down on the bed and let her snuggle her little cone right up to me and she quickly falls asleep. I guess all that backwards running is exhausting. She’s calm for now. I’ll take it. It’s going to be a long couple of days.

NyQuil Fog

So I’ve been pretty sick lately, and none of my normal creature comforts are giving me any relief. I’m just bored, and sick and tired of being sick and tired, so I decide to take my double gulp of NyQuil a little early and hit the sack. I cuddle up in bed amongst all my blankets and animals and put on SVU so I can stare at Detective Benson until I fall asleep. But it’s hot. No wait, it’s freezing in here. Is the air even working? I finally settle with one bare foot and arm hanging out of the covers. Ahhh. Finally getting comfortable. I can barely make out Detective Benson on the tv. She’s so …. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

 Suddenly I’m in the interrogation room and Roseanne is pounding the table and hammering questions at me. “Wait, who the hell are you?”

“I told you I’m Detective Benson.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re totally not hot.”

“Honey, that’s all done with lighting and makeup, no one on tv is really hot.”

“Well, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything, but you’re totally messing with one of my favorite fantasies, so could you maybe go get Fin or something. Maybe he can say something painfully obvious in his gangster voice. That’s always hilarious.”

The dog is barking. More like yelping. Maybe her leg is caught in a bear trap and she’s trying to gnaw it off. I have to find her! Someone hits me in the stomach. I open one eye and see that Scout is dreaming as well. Her legs, all four in perfect working order, are running through the air and her floppy lip barely lifting with each high pitched dream bark. Maybe she’s chasing a rabbit. I won’t ruin it for her. Reality is slippery right now and my eye slides closed. I hear dripping in the bathroom and reluctantly get up to check it out. The faucet is dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip. I turn the knob as hard as I can, but it continues to drip. I try turning it again, only this time the friction from the ridges on the knob rips my skin and now I’m bleeding. The faucet drips, my hand drips. Clear drip. Red drip. Clear Drip. Red Drip. I watch the blood and water swirl down the drain for a minute, then look down at my hand. There is no pain, but half of the skin on my hand is peeled back, like taking off a wet glove. Ok, I have to be dreaming, right? I tell myself in my dream to go back to sleep and I walk toward the bed, my skin glove flopping against my thigh with every step. The dog’s leg is in a bear trap. I have to help her. Then I hear Fin is in ultra-cool street voice, “Yo! Cough medicine makes you dream some crazy shit!” The sound of my own giggle wakes me up. The dog continues to chase her dream rabbit. I scratch her head to wake her up just in case she’s dreaming some crazy shit too. Then I start the next episode of SVU.