Reality Check: The True Face of an Invasive Species
By Pete Richards
It was late at night and I was enveloped in the sleep that one needs to reboot for the next day. I gently tugged at my moorings as waves lapped quietly at the edges of my subconscious. After a long day, sleep came the moment my head touched the pillow.
Paralytic sleep normally doesn’t accompany dreams. Dreams are reserved for waking periods and that is probably why the loud shriek from downstairs didn’t register, not at first anyway. I didn’t want to - nor could I easily - just stop sleeping. As the insistent shrieking grew louder, however, I found myself struggling up through the many layers of my subconscious. As I neared the surface, the shrieking slowly resolved into words: “Pete, GET UP! SOMETHING POOPED in the house!”
This is a dream, right? Wrong! As proof, now fully awake, rather than stopping, the shrieking continued. On the bright side it meant that my sweetheart was home. But the bright side paled given the ominous implications carried by her shrieking.
I thought: “Oh “expletive deleted”, what the “expletive deleted” is going on now?”
That afternoon I was engaged in non-traditional kitchen multi-tasking. Working from recipes, I was making a big pot of chili and a knock-off of my sweetheart’s special chocolate cake. Neither working from recipes nor multi-tasking is my forte but I wanted to do my share for a party that night. I do vaguely recall at some point coming back into the house which seemed unusually cold. But of course: somewhere along the line I left the kitchen sliding door open. Casually closing the door, I left for the party, goodies in hand. It was nice party.
I was happy to get back home and hit the hay.
I wasn’t happy to hear the not-stopping-for-anything shrieking though - which, undoubtedly was amplified in my mind by its exceeding rarity and the proximal disaster it implied. By now, I knew I needed to make some sort of appearance, so I did. Clad in saggy undershorts and a deeply disturbed frown, I descended the stairs - not a pretty sight. My sweetheart was also not such a pretty sight as she pointed out some rather large scat in the front hall, previously overlooked by me.
Smaller than goose scat, it seemed innocuous enough so I valiantly said: “Glad you’re home sweetheart; hope you had a good time. Now that that infernal screaming has stopped, I’ll just go back to bed.”
I won’t soon forget her well-chosen response: “OH NO YOU WON’T, I think there is SOMETHING in the HOUSE and YOU need to find it and get it OUT!”
Even old brains sometimes work quickly. I said (in the most profound voice I could muster): “The only thing to do is to close all the doors in the house and wait for “whatever-it-is” that might-be-in-the-house to announce itself.”
Then I went back to bed, hoping to continue where I left off. No such luck. My sweetheart didn’t seem satisfied with either my conclusion or my skeletal plan. I began to sense this as she clanged around the house for a while then brushed her teeth vigorously for 37 minutes. It didn’t help that I also had the nagging suspicion that she probably was right. But, you can’t tell if a plan is working unless you give it a chance to play out. After finishing with her teeth, I could still hear my sweetheart roaming around, opening and closing doors.
Then, BAD NEWS: “PETE, IT’S HERE, I FOUND IT!”
“That’s great news honey, just close the door and come to bed, it’s really cold. We can deal with it in the morning!”
I can tell you, THAT was a nonstarter: “Pete, you have no idea just how cold “cold” can be.”
I felt a chill run down my spine: “OK, OK, OK, I’m coming honey!
But, WHAT IS IT?”
“I don’t know, but it’s BIG and FURRY with A LONG TAIL, BIG TEETH and a GRUMPY WHISKERY LOOK.”
“Just HOW big is it dear?”
“I don’t know but it’s bigger than a cat!”
“What kind of cat - like a Chihuahua cat or like a Mountain Lion kind of cat?”
“Yeah, not like one of those small cats, more like a pretty big one!”
Now the old brain was in really-high gear. A plan erupted. The “whatever-it-is” with the BIG TEETH was occupying our daughter’s upstairs bedroom. We closed that door. Then with the urgency required by disaster, we quickly crafted a series of blockades using 4’ X 8’ sheets of solid foam insulation, eventually forming a chute from the bedroom, down the staircase and out the front door. In theory, all we now had to do was open the bedroom door and ask the “whatever-it-is” to kindly leave using the nicely prepared chute.
Then the delicate question arose (at least in my mind) just who was going to do the persuading. Silly me, I should have known; that was already decided.
As my new reality sunk-in, it dawned on me that I probably was not dressed appropriately for the proposed negotiations. I garbed-up in all my heaviest Carhartt gear, my old goalie gloves and football helmet, and then armed myself with my baseball bat and boat horn. My old fire department training came in handy as I laddered-up to the bedroom window to startle the “whatever-it-is” out of there. I think that having the windows closed and locked dampened my shock and awe campaign significantly and the “whatever-it-is” seemed non-plussed by my rap-tap-tapping on the window, my melodic boat-horn-blowing and so forth. Not so with the neighbors though. Soon, a grumpy crowd gathered, apparently complimenting me on my attire. Never mind: my skin (and my Carhartt stuff) is pretty thick and what do they know about a mad sweetheart anyway?
Resolved to do the manly thing, I grabbed a broom and a rake and re-entered the house, approaching the door to my daughter’s bedroom. As trained, I felt the door with the back of my bare hand (first high and then lower) trying to sense any signs of heat, nothing. Damn. I put my goalie gloves back on and opened the door a crack, still no sign of the “whatever-it-is”.
Opening the door further I could see that “whatever-it-is” was not going to reveal itself like a man. I buckled-up my chinstrap, grabbed my broom and rake and forced entry into the room. Proceeding slowly, I managed to break the rake while pounding it on the floor in an attempt to flush the bugger: nothing doing. Rounding the other side of the bed I saw what appeared to be a brown Greyhound tail sticking out from under the bed. At least it wasn’t a slathering, tooth-filled, venom-spewing mouth - agape with murderous intention. Not knowing what to do next I hit the tail with the broom handle.
OK, THAT was THE GO BUTTON!
The “whatever-it-is” shot out from under the bed, out the bedroom door and halfway down the stairs then stopped, seeming to wonder why it was leaving such a nice warm place. From then on it was nip and tuck but I was able to maneuver it (backwards, hissing and spitting) with skillful and diligent broom work - down the stairs, through the chute in the front hall and FINALLY - out the front door. As it gradually and haltingly retreated into the night, I threw the broom at it, jumped back in the house and slammed the front door shut, safe from that giant snarling nutria at last.
I’m OK now, I guess. I’m glad I didn’t try the Glock, the 410 or the 12 gauge. They would have made the nightmare harder to clean-up in the long run. But I do have a message for that “whatever-it-is”:
“Listen here you damn nutria: the Glock, the 410 and the 12 gauge are all here, loaded and ready should I get another opportunity to tell you what I really think about you ruining my dreams.”
My sweetheart’s suggestion: Keep your doors closed ladies and gentlemen; you never know when you might be the victim of a nutria invasion.
Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual people or places is strictly a figment of your imagination.
From the July 2014 Ridge Runner
By Pete Richards
It was late at night and I was enveloped in the sleep that one needs to reboot for the next day. I gently tugged at my moorings as waves lapped quietly at the edges of my subconscious. After a long day, sleep came the moment my head touched the pillow.
Paralytic sleep normally doesn’t accompany dreams. Dreams are reserved for waking periods and that is probably why the loud shriek from downstairs didn’t register, not at first anyway. I didn’t want to - nor could I easily - just stop sleeping. As the insistent shrieking grew louder, however, I found myself struggling up through the many layers of my subconscious. As I neared the surface, the shrieking slowly resolved into words: “Pete, GET UP! SOMETHING POOPED in the house!”
This is a dream, right? Wrong! As proof, now fully awake, rather than stopping, the shrieking continued. On the bright side it meant that my sweetheart was home. But the bright side paled given the ominous implications carried by her shrieking.
I thought: “Oh “expletive deleted”, what the “expletive deleted” is going on now?”
That afternoon I was engaged in non-traditional kitchen multi-tasking. Working from recipes, I was making a big pot of chili and a knock-off of my sweetheart’s special chocolate cake. Neither working from recipes nor multi-tasking is my forte but I wanted to do my share for a party that night. I do vaguely recall at some point coming back into the house which seemed unusually cold. But of course: somewhere along the line I left the kitchen sliding door open. Casually closing the door, I left for the party, goodies in hand. It was nice party.
I was happy to get back home and hit the hay.
I wasn’t happy to hear the not-stopping-for-anything shrieking though - which, undoubtedly was amplified in my mind by its exceeding rarity and the proximal disaster it implied. By now, I knew I needed to make some sort of appearance, so I did. Clad in saggy undershorts and a deeply disturbed frown, I descended the stairs - not a pretty sight. My sweetheart was also not such a pretty sight as she pointed out some rather large scat in the front hall, previously overlooked by me.
Smaller than goose scat, it seemed innocuous enough so I valiantly said: “Glad you’re home sweetheart; hope you had a good time. Now that that infernal screaming has stopped, I’ll just go back to bed.”
I won’t soon forget her well-chosen response: “OH NO YOU WON’T, I think there is SOMETHING in the HOUSE and YOU need to find it and get it OUT!”
Even old brains sometimes work quickly. I said (in the most profound voice I could muster): “The only thing to do is to close all the doors in the house and wait for “whatever-it-is” that might-be-in-the-house to announce itself.”
Then I went back to bed, hoping to continue where I left off. No such luck. My sweetheart didn’t seem satisfied with either my conclusion or my skeletal plan. I began to sense this as she clanged around the house for a while then brushed her teeth vigorously for 37 minutes. It didn’t help that I also had the nagging suspicion that she probably was right. But, you can’t tell if a plan is working unless you give it a chance to play out. After finishing with her teeth, I could still hear my sweetheart roaming around, opening and closing doors.
Then, BAD NEWS: “PETE, IT’S HERE, I FOUND IT!”
“That’s great news honey, just close the door and come to bed, it’s really cold. We can deal with it in the morning!”
I can tell you, THAT was a nonstarter: “Pete, you have no idea just how cold “cold” can be.”
I felt a chill run down my spine: “OK, OK, OK, I’m coming honey!
But, WHAT IS IT?”
“I don’t know, but it’s BIG and FURRY with A LONG TAIL, BIG TEETH and a GRUMPY WHISKERY LOOK.”
“Just HOW big is it dear?”
“I don’t know but it’s bigger than a cat!”
“What kind of cat - like a Chihuahua cat or like a Mountain Lion kind of cat?”
“Yeah, not like one of those small cats, more like a pretty big one!”
Now the old brain was in really-high gear. A plan erupted. The “whatever-it-is” with the BIG TEETH was occupying our daughter’s upstairs bedroom. We closed that door. Then with the urgency required by disaster, we quickly crafted a series of blockades using 4’ X 8’ sheets of solid foam insulation, eventually forming a chute from the bedroom, down the staircase and out the front door. In theory, all we now had to do was open the bedroom door and ask the “whatever-it-is” to kindly leave using the nicely prepared chute.
Then the delicate question arose (at least in my mind) just who was going to do the persuading. Silly me, I should have known; that was already decided.
As my new reality sunk-in, it dawned on me that I probably was not dressed appropriately for the proposed negotiations. I garbed-up in all my heaviest Carhartt gear, my old goalie gloves and football helmet, and then armed myself with my baseball bat and boat horn. My old fire department training came in handy as I laddered-up to the bedroom window to startle the “whatever-it-is” out of there. I think that having the windows closed and locked dampened my shock and awe campaign significantly and the “whatever-it-is” seemed non-plussed by my rap-tap-tapping on the window, my melodic boat-horn-blowing and so forth. Not so with the neighbors though. Soon, a grumpy crowd gathered, apparently complimenting me on my attire. Never mind: my skin (and my Carhartt stuff) is pretty thick and what do they know about a mad sweetheart anyway?
Resolved to do the manly thing, I grabbed a broom and a rake and re-entered the house, approaching the door to my daughter’s bedroom. As trained, I felt the door with the back of my bare hand (first high and then lower) trying to sense any signs of heat, nothing. Damn. I put my goalie gloves back on and opened the door a crack, still no sign of the “whatever-it-is”.
Opening the door further I could see that “whatever-it-is” was not going to reveal itself like a man. I buckled-up my chinstrap, grabbed my broom and rake and forced entry into the room. Proceeding slowly, I managed to break the rake while pounding it on the floor in an attempt to flush the bugger: nothing doing. Rounding the other side of the bed I saw what appeared to be a brown Greyhound tail sticking out from under the bed. At least it wasn’t a slathering, tooth-filled, venom-spewing mouth - agape with murderous intention. Not knowing what to do next I hit the tail with the broom handle.
OK, THAT was THE GO BUTTON!
The “whatever-it-is” shot out from under the bed, out the bedroom door and halfway down the stairs then stopped, seeming to wonder why it was leaving such a nice warm place. From then on it was nip and tuck but I was able to maneuver it (backwards, hissing and spitting) with skillful and diligent broom work - down the stairs, through the chute in the front hall and FINALLY - out the front door. As it gradually and haltingly retreated into the night, I threw the broom at it, jumped back in the house and slammed the front door shut, safe from that giant snarling nutria at last.
I’m OK now, I guess. I’m glad I didn’t try the Glock, the 410 or the 12 gauge. They would have made the nightmare harder to clean-up in the long run. But I do have a message for that “whatever-it-is”:
“Listen here you damn nutria: the Glock, the 410 and the 12 gauge are all here, loaded and ready should I get another opportunity to tell you what I really think about you ruining my dreams.”
My sweetheart’s suggestion: Keep your doors closed ladies and gentlemen; you never know when you might be the victim of a nutria invasion.
Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual people or places is strictly a figment of your imagination.
From the July 2014 Ridge Runner
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