Welcome to hater humpday, the brainchild of the illustrious Dawn from This Side of Typical.
Yard work. It’s the doing of work, which is not my favorite thing, and it’s done in the yard, where there’s dirt and bugs and fire ants.
So we decided to do some yard work this weekend, even though it’s been 80 billion degrees for 30 days now. All three of us were working as one superhuman team of sweaty, irritable, complaining yard improvement machines.
Then we heard this screech/yelp come from the side of the house.
Hubby ran to the side of the house just as Dora, the crazy dingo dog, came racing past him toward the back porch. With something in her mouth.
We all turn to look, and we see that she is standing at the back door with a bloody rat in her mouth.
And since, when faced with a great and mighty challenge, we operate like a band of stealthy ninjas, this is how we all reacted:
Hubs: Runs to the porch to try and extract the rat from her mouth because she was shaking it around like a squeaky toy.
Me: Stands in yard, waving arms in the air, yelling “Oh my god, it’s a RAT!!! Where did a rat come from?! How could there be a rat? I’ve never seen any rats around here! What are we going to do? OHMYGOD SHE HAS A RAAAAAT!!!!!
Connor: Runs in circles, yelling “Mommy, why does Dora have a rat? What is she doing with it? What’s going to happen? I WANT TO GO IN THE HOUSE, I’M SCARED!”
Just so we have a picture of this, the dog is standing on the back porch, with a spatter of blood up her face. The rat head is in her mouth, and the body and tail are hanging out. And the rat body is TWITCHING AND JERKING AND DRIPPING BLOOD.
So hubs managed to get her to release her new chew toy, but since it’s still twitching, husband has to hold it down with his foot (we need to burn those sneakers). So he tells me to hand him the only thing I have in my hands, so he can use it to hold the rat down while Connor runs to get his gloves. And the thing in my hand is HEDGE CLIPPERS.
It’s not like he can hold the rat down with the handles, so he had to use the point of the clippers, which impaled the damn thing.
So Connor throws the gloves at him and runs into the house and slams the door. But his morbid curiosity didn’t keep him from standing with his face pressed against the sliding glass door.
With the gloves on, hubs disappears around the side of the house with the bloody, twitching rat.
When he returns several minutes later, I’m hosing off the porch. I ask him, “what did you do with it?”
And here is what he told me:
“I took it to the side of the house, by the trash cans. But it wasn’t dead, so I had to find something to kill it. SO I TOOK TWO HUGE BRICKS AND PUT THEM ON TOP OF IT. Its back end was sticking out, and I was afraid it was going to POP.”
In response to this story, I ask “why didn’t you just whack it with the shovel?”
And he says, “I had to use the closest thing I could find.”
So while I stood there pondering whether it was safe to clean the rat blood off the dog’s head with bleach and a blowtorch, she started doing this crazy, happy murder dance in front of me, wiggling and waggling her butt from side to side, and throwing her head back over her shoulder to look at me.
You may recall that I’ve written about this dog before, and her nonsense and shenanigans. That rat was her golden ticket to an eternal place in our family. And I also used a much milder abrasive to clean her bloody snout.
In conclusion of Hater Humpday, let me reiterate that I HATE YARD WORK. Also, rats.
But I will keep hope alive that someday, someday my hopes and dreams will be answered when that renegade band of roving gardeners descends upon my yard with reckless abandon, angrily weaving the fried remains of our shrubbery into a glorious wonderland of greenery.