Wild Life

Yesterday morning a tiny frog got into the house when I opened the front door to retrieve my morning paper. I can tell none of you care how this seemingly minor event can cause me such consternation. As I scrambled about in the darkness to corral the diminutive amphibian, I thought of all the fucking critters that have entered my abode uninvited.

The very first non-human that has tormented my dreams was my sister. Only kidding. But what was unleashed that scarred my psyche forever, was directly attributed to my sister.

We had a mutual hate for each other my sister and I. She hated I was born, I hated she lived through birth. She made it the focal point of her existence to make myexistence as miserable as she could. 

A favorite activity of my sister and her hooligan neighborhood cohorts was to go outside around dusk and shine a flashlight skyward in the hope of attracting a bat. If the innocent flying rodent was enticed to dive at the erratic luminescence my sister wildly wielded, one of her henchmen would take an arbitrary swing with a Jack Kramer model Wilson tennis racket on the off chance they could stun the little flying fucker and trap it in a shoebox. 

My sister and her occult practicing friends also probably took great delight in putting fire crackers up frogs assholes, but I wasn't privy to that display.

One evening, by a sheer stroke of luck -no pun intended- my sister landed her quarry. In a moment of what I'm sure she considered pure genius, she raced to my room -while my parents stood idly by gossiping with neighbors in the street- to tie me to the chair in my room.

This chair held fond memories for me. It was where my mother sat when she'd read me a bedtime story. After that evenings festivities, I'm pretty sure I insisted we should burn the chair in the fireplace. And when it was reduced to a mere pile of smoldering ash, collect the remains and bury them in the back yard being sure to spread a healthy amount of salt on the ground where the remnants were laid to rest.

As if tying me to the chair was not enough good-natured disturbing behavior for one night, the piece de resistance was to release the bat from its shoebox prison in my room, turn on the light, and shut the door behind her. While the bat behaved in a fashion similar to an epileptic having a seizure after chugging an economy size bottle of Tabasco sauce; I could hear my sister squealing with delight right outside my door while I screamed as if I was being disemboweled with not so much as an aspirin to take the edge off.

My parents, in their infinite wisdom, sensed the air was rife with uncomfortable discourse, though no sense could be made of my high-pitched, blood curdling emanations that wafted from my window on the soft summer breeze. I received little satisfaction as to my sister's retribution that came in the form of a severe beating. I was hoping she could be secured with barbed wire to the front of a speeding train that was on a collision course with another unsuspecting locomotive. No such luck. This was not my last experience with one of Mother Nature's children of the wood.

There was the raccoon that came down the chimney Santa-like in the living room of the rental home we were refurbishing for the owner in lieu of rent. My step-father was stupid enough to start a fire in the fireplace without opening the thingy and when it was opened, a raccoon that had taken residence in the long out of use flues, decided to make take the path of least resistance to avoid the irritating smoke. 

Armed with a broom and I think perhaps a 70's version of a Hazmat suit, I jousted with, what I was sure was rabid, creature of the night. Strategic with every move, I cut off all angles but the one that led out the front door. Secure in my victory over another tormentor, I snickered that had my sister had been there, I would have shooed her out the front door as well. I'm not done.

There was the large black snake our cat Ramone was kind enough to share with my son and I after an evening on the prowl. I didn't notice it was a snake right away. I stared at the cat with an odd wonderment at the macabre Fu Manchu mustache hanging from the corners of the cat's mouth...that is until it writhed, then I believe I may have shat myself, I don't rightly recall. But whatever my response was, I'm sure it had something to do with the release of bodily fluids I was unable to control.
Again my trusty broom served me well. Accompanied by its partner in crime the trusty dustpan, and maybe some Playtex gloves and boric acid, and maybe a small caliber hand gun; I was able to rid my home of another of my bugaboos. Getting rid of the next bat was a stroke of brilliance.

While sitting on the couch watching television in my living where a large Black snake once ruled for a night, my son's nanny remarked about the large clump of dust that had collected in the corner where the ceiling meets the walls...that too was proved to be a false assumption when movement dispelled the myth my mind had generated. A mutual friend of my ex-wife and I was once faced with the very same dilemma. The lightning bolt of ingenuity struck and I told the nanny to fetch the vacuum. I connected the extensions, put the end a hair's breath away from the bat's ass, and yelled "NOW." With a whir, the bat was sucked into the bag. I put the bag in the garbage, and after some hearty laughter at my heartless ingenuity, we resumed watching TV, resting easy that mankind was safe. And then I moved to Florida. Where it seemed like everyday something lizards, palmetto bugs, very small snakes, something was getting into the house. Nothing as serious as the Bumpus hounds, but there was once a squirrel.

The furry miscreant decided one gorgeous winter morn to disrupt my intellectually stimulating crossword puzzle. However, what made matters worse was the fact I was having leg trouble and was sans prosthesis. It came through a small tear in the screen and proceeded to deposit raisinet-like turds about the house. I open every door and hopped from room to room reminding me in retrospect of some crazed Ahab with the my white whale gray, and a squirrel rather than the world's largest sea mammal. I finally met with success. And now the frog.

He (she?) is still here. After evading my dexterous advances, it made its way behind the antique Dutch cupboard in the kitchen. I thought it may meet its end via the cat. I thought it too terrified to come out eventually dying the lonely agonizing death by starvation. But out it is and in my living room under a cup. I must attend to it now. Wish me luck. I hope it isn't angry.