A New Friend

Ever have one of those days where things rapidly devolve from normal to weird?  Surprisingly, much of my life is that way, but the most recent example happened a few weeks ago (yeah, Sister is that far behind in helping me share my stories with the world)—taking place early one Sunday morning out east. 

The day started as most Sunday mornings do.  Pa and I went outside first thing in the morning to do business and check the perimeters.  Usually, these morning rituals are fairly non eventful.  I mean, most mornings when I go outside I can smell the distinct scent of deer on the air and sometimes I’ve even found bits and pieces of fish strewed about the yard, but, for the most part, the worst I have to actually deal with is an errant squirrel trespassing through my territory. 

This Sunday, however, was different.  As I made my way toward the back corner of the yard, something caught my eye by the fence—something rather flat and oval with short little stubs pointing out in five directions.  Cautiously, I approached the object all the while shooting concerned looks over my shoulder at Pa who was backing me up from a distance too great for my liking. 

“Go ahead,” Pa said reassuringly.  “Check it out.” 

Check it out is a phrase I was taught a long time ago, back when I was concerned about attack garbage cans on my daily walks with Pa (hey, you never know).  Check it out means that whatever is in front of me will probably not kill me so I should walk over to it and give it a sniff. 

I shot Pa another concerned look.  “Really, check it out,” he said. 

Although against my better judgement, I cautiously approached the object and gave it a sniff.  Then I jumped about ten feet straight in the air when it suddenly retracted its head and legs. 

I had, on my paws, a real live box turtle. 

Now you might recall that I’ve had other near run-ins with turtles.  Sister once found a box turtle in the backyard out east, but I didn’t get to sniff him because I didn’t know he was there and she moved him before I did (here's the story of that day).  I also once saw a giant snapping turtle at Old Westbury Gardens, but didn’t get to sniff him either because Sister deemed his snapping mouth way too large to mess with (and here's that story).  But these two events were near misses, I wasn’t expecting to ever actually come face to face with a turtle. 

Anyway, once I got all four paws back on the Earth, I shot Pa a “what the heck?” look. 

“It’s okay.  Check it out,” Pa said again. 

If it weren’t for the fact that Pa and I are buds and I trust him completely, I would have walked away right then and there.  But no, I summoned up all the courage I could muster and gave the turtle a good long sniff… 

…and then I quickly ran off to check out a different part of the yard.  Not long after, the turtle slipped under the neighbor’s fence perhaps to go swimming in their pool. 

About a month later, the turtle and I crossed paths again against the backyard fence.  Having met before, I casually strolled up to it, gave him a “hey, how you doing?” sniff then he and I went our separate ways again.  

He's welcome to pass through my yard any time he likes on his way to the pool.

Unforgivable

Stupid little fluffy tailed bunnies.  Is there a more repulsive creature in existence? 

I think not. 

Now, my loyal readers know all too well about my dislike and distrust of these stupid little vermin, but for a quick refresher they… 

• taunt me with their speed
• cause property damage 
• trespass on my property 
• break into my house each and every Easter Sunday.

And don’t even get me started on those bunny-squirrel hybrids! 

But this past weekend, the stupid little bunny went too far and caused something to happen that is totally unforgivable. 

I had just finished eating my dinner and was standing by the door waiting for Pa to put his shoes on so that I could go outside.  With a “Come on, Sam,” Pa opened the door and I sauntered out onto the porch and started making my way down the stairs to the backyard.  Pa was right behind me. 

Pa and I both saw the stupid little brown bunny sitting in the middle of the yard at the exact same moment and we both took off running toward it--although for very different reasons.  Pa was running toward the bunny to diplomatically shoo it away. I was running toward the bunny to un-diplomatically show it the exit.  With my two extra legs, I was leading the charge between Pa and I, but the stupid little bunny with its head start consistently kept its distance from us as it made a beeline for the fence and eventually showed itself out. 

With the chase over, I threw on the breaks and came to a screeching halt.  Seconds later, Pa came to a stop beside me.  The bunny had escaped, but I quickly realized that an escaped intruder was the least of my problems. 

According to Sir Isaac Newton’s first law of motion, an object in motion remains in motion unless acted upon by an outside force.  Well, my feet might have stopped propelling me forward, but unfortunately the contents of my stomach were still running at top speed.  As a result, when I stopped, my dinner kept moving forward and with a loud hack, it all reappeared in a pile at my feet. 

Horrified, I looked down at my regurgitated dinner.  Then I looked with disbelief at the hole in the fence where the bunny had escaped.  Then I looked back at my undigested meal. I had lost them both—the rabbit and my dinner—and it was all that stupid bunny’s fault. 

It might have been seconds later or maybe years, but eventually the sound of Pa’s voice cut through the darkness of self-pity.  “Come on, Squirt,” he said sympathetically, giving me a pat on my side.  “Let’s go in.”  Together, we walked back to the house. 

Inside the house, I was met by a wave of sympathy.  Ma, Sister, and Aunt B were equally horrified by my loss and showered me with pets, kisses, and ear rubs.  It was nice, don’t get me wrong, but sympathy wasn’t what I really wanted.  I wanted my dinner back. 

Depressed, I threw myself down on the floor resigned to sleep away my loss with the hopes of dreaming about having a full stomach again. 

I felt the vibration of his feet walking in my direction before I heard anything.  Bleary eyed, I looked up and saw Pa standing before me.  “Come on, Sam,” he said, “you want another dinner?”  I blinked in disbelief.  “Rigs, you want to try again?” 

This has to be a dream, I thought.  I’d never been given a second meal after throwing up the first.  At best, I’d get a big cookie an hour or so after the fact.  But a second meal?  Never.  Still, I figured, the offer was being made.  Who was I to refuse it? 

I jumped to my feet and followed Pa to my bag of food.  I watched as he poured a cup of kibble into my bowl and stepped up to my dinner station when he put the bowl down.  I looked down into the bowl.  Somehow, I knew that as soon as I took a bite of the kibble, the whole thing would disappear and I’d wake from this glorious dream. 

Still, I had to try. I opened my mouth and lapped up a mouthful.

It smelled like kibble. 

It crunched like kibble. 

It tasted like kibble. 

It was kibble! 

I wasn’t dreaming!  I was actually getting a second dinner! 

Pa later explained that because I hadn’t gotten sick on a bad stomach or because of a “dietary indiscretion” (i.e., eating grass which I know doesn’t sit well) and had actually only lost my first dinner because of that stupid little bunny, I was entitled to a second chance. 

Pa was making things right.