Certain bloggers wake up to morning sex.
I wake up to VampireLover alerting me to a vehicular homicide that ended with the furry, four-legged, victim at the end of my property. There are seven driveways on my street, but where did the little bandit choose to expire?
You guessed it.
I actually miss the hotel and all the guest who spit on me – metaphorically and literally.
Getting back to the wonderfully twisted horror/humor that visits my life occasionally, whenever an animal dies on our street – squirrels, birds, raccoons, drunks – it decides my driveway is a nice place to greet the Grim Reaper. So anyhoo, there I was, standing in my driveway at 9:30 in the morning – in my pajamas. (Don’t get too excited ladies, I have manly legs, but they lead to a slight gut and a hairline that has gone the way of disco – and Steve Guttenberg’s career.)
My vampire-worshipping-love stayed on the front porch and did her best to contact animal services to take charge of the grim scene, but they weren’t open yet, so it fell to me to scoop up the corpse with a shovel… slowly, of course. I don’t do death very well. Especially furry death.
“Hurry up, Skippy! Just pick it up and get it out of there! There are kids and dogs around!“
I love my wife, but it’s tough to accept that, of the two of us, she’s the tough-as-nails one.
And did I mention the foot-long, Yellow Gold Macaw that moved into one of the properties across from my home two weeks ago? And did I mention it’s room faces the street? It decided to serenade me – and Chelsea, who couldn’t stop barking – as I worked.
His protests were followed by several bouts of squawking, naturally. That doesn’t get old – NOT! At any rate, the Humane Society arrived five hours later and the female worker bagged up the critter in two seconds flat, thus totally emasculating me. I have to admit, considering the near-perfect state of the dead bandit (except, you know, for the fact it was dead), I considered shipping it off to The Bloggess for stuffing.
You can laugh or roll your eyes, but she’s received stranger gifts from fans, trust me.
ONE MORE THING: There are a disturbingly-high number of images of dead raccoons available on Google. What’s wrong with people? Personally, I blame Ned Hickson’s influence.
So anyway, that was my Sunday morning. How was yours?
Rest in peace, you furry nutjob.