Giraffe Spit Smells Like Marigolds

Yesterday, my whole hand was in a giraffe's mouth.

This giraffe and I got up close and personal.  I know what it's spit smells like.

It was pretty much the best day of my life.

FAQs

These are the most common questions I receive.  Here are the anxiously-awaited answers. 

I'm sorry.



1)  Can you help me with my English homework?
Sure.  That money I spent on college ought to be put to some sort of use.

2)  What's with the possums?
I don't know.  It's the best kind of mystery.

3)  What should I read next?
A book.

4)  What are you wearing?
Long underwear in a dingy gray, two pairs of socks, old sweat pants, a hoody two sizes too big, and a parka.  Or if that floats your boat, whatever you think is gross.

5)  Are you a feminazi?
If a dude called out another dude for being a douche, does that make him a dudenazi?

6)  Why do so many crazy things happen to you?  Do you make them up?
Sadly, no.  It's serendipity.  And a lack of social and/or motor skills.

7)  Can I someday be as awesome as your dog?
No. 

8)  Nine, Ten, or Eleven?
Ten.  Obviously.  The hair.  And below that, the... sneakers.

9)  You say you are from Wisconsin.  Do you like cheese?
Only if it squeaks.

10)  Who is your hero?
My nana.  I once went to her in an existential crisis.  She took one look at me and said, "Suck it up.  You're a Whoozit*."
*Name changed to protect me from the marsupial-lovers.

11)  How do you get through each day?
On my monitor, I have a shrine to the Virgin Mary, Superman, and Britney Spears. 

There are things you'd think I'd remember...

I've been told I can get a little feisty.  And I fight flat-out dirty.  I'm small and arthritic, so I've got to strike quickly and efficiently.

So I bite.

Not strangers or whatever, just friends and the Dude, whenever we get to wrestling.  (Actual wrestling--get your mind out of the gutter.)

The Dude commented on this penchant of mine last week.

"Yeah," I said, laughing.  "Remember that time I missed and accidentally bit your nipple?"

"Uh, that wasn't me..."

Whose nipple did I bite?!

Yeah, I Say "OreGON." And I Sort of Hate Myself For It.

(Content note:  The experience described below is a lot more universal than you're going to want to admit.)

When I was in grade school, the best days in computer class were when we were allowed to play Oregon Trail.  This was back in the day when a computer was still called a MacIntosh, and the green oxen pulled a green Conastoga wagon across a black screen.

Obviously, when naming the members of my party, I borrowed exclusively from my friends and, more importantly (sorry, friends), always included the name of my latest crush.

Because that's the height of romance in fourth grade.

Invariably, my crush would drown during an attempted river-fording (I knew I should have paid the Indians to guide me across!) or succumb to dysentery.  There were other diseases in the game as I recall, but dysentery seemed to be the only one that could actually be fatal.  That and ford-crossing.

Because I was a particularly twisted child, these deaths were always very amusing to me.

A few days ago, the Dude sent me a photo--he'd set me up as a test patient of the hospital that for some reason employs him.  The first thing that popped into my head?

Via

Naturally.


(True:  I just went to the bathroom and discovered there was toothpaste on my ear.  What?!  How!?)

A Series of Unfortunate Eve--Wait. That title's already taken.

I went camping with the Dude, the dogs, and my folks.  This is not the unfortunate part.

Dad set the Dude on fire.  (But only a little bit.)  (Edit:  I've been told by a not-unbiased party that this should actually read:  Hero Dad saved the Dude's life moments before total combustion.)

Blink, the blind and deaf dog--It's awesome.  He grins and waves his head like Ray Charles, only without the piano.--almost, while on a walk with Dad and the Dude, floated away down the river.  Whoops!

Via

The moral of the story is:  I'm never leaving the Dude alone with the Dad again.  They're trouble.

Also fun:  I forgot to rinse the conditioner out of my hair this morning.  You know that scene in There's Something About Mary?

Via

Yeah.  It wasn't anything like that, actually.

Culture Shock

I spent several months in London while I was in college.  I was well-aware that some things would be different than I was used to, and they were.  Same goes for my shorter visits to other countries.

Chicago is four hours from my hometown.  Other than big-city-versus-tiny-town stuff, I figured most things would be the same. 

Chicago is four hours from my hometown.  It's the only place where I've experienced culture shock.

Like "gym shoes."  Did you know Chicagoans call tennis shoes "gym shoes?"  Clearly this is wrong.  No one else does this, Chicago.



Can you even see the tiny green dot that is Chicago?


And they don't call it a "bubbler."  Dude, it bubbles.  It makes bubbling sounds.  It's clearly a bubbler.



See?  One of those tiny states out east agrees with us, and that makes it totally legit.  Also, my European geography is better than my American geography.  At least I can tell the difference between Latvia and Lithuania, right?  That's what's really important here.  And also bubblers.

(Both these maps, and twenty others equally as entertaining, can be found here.  If you language is interesting and people are weird, it's right up your alley.)

Also, would you believe that I had cannoli chips for breakfast?  I didn't even really know what cannoli was before I moved here, and now I find out it's available in delicious chip/dip form?  Dude, it's worth moving here just for that.

On a less appetizing note, "Sally" is used as an insult here.  As in, "You're afraid of spiders?  You're such a Sally."  Because no Sally ever would smoosh a spider without cringing and squealing and probably crying of course.  Get it?  It's because she's a girl.


(True:  This photographer in Texas took photos of her daughter that make me feel better.)

(Also true:  Spellcheck thinks "bubbler" isn't a word.  But it thinks the same thing about cannoli.  So there.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Sometimes, You Gotta Play Mama Bear

I've gotten a few snide comments about my dog.  Usually it happens when I'm on a long walk or am out for the day with Prada, and I've got her in the belly bag.  Because you know, purse-dog stereotypes blah blah blah.  I've snarked back a time or two--in my polite way, of course.  It's amazing how far a, "yeah, it's great that there are more options for handicapped dogs these days, isn't it?" will go.  (Cue the stuttering and agreeing.  Because while plenty of people are willing to make fun of purse-dogs, not too many are willing to be an asshole about handicapped ones.  Kind of like people who are really nice--except to waiters.)  More often, I just grin at them to let them know I've heard and move on.

I don't think I should tell someone anything about their dog that I wouldn't say about their child.  Or, more universally, if you don't want to feel like an asshole, don't be an asshole.  Asshole.

Because sometimes, you've just got to play mama bear.

Naturally, assholes aren't limited to snarking on dogs with altered mobility.  Purse dogs, small dogs, dogs they've decided are a mean breed or just ugly, whatever.

Which leads me to an incident my dad described to me.  My folks were recently at a national invitational for rally obedience.  (Yeah, they got invited to nationals their first year doing it.  Dad and Linka took 3rd place in Rally 2, and tied for 6th in Rally 3, the hardest level.  Against the best dogs in the country.  Not too shabby, right?)  At the same event was a conformation show--the standard kind you see on Thanksgiving, for pure-breds only. 

Now, Linka is a pure-bred miniature schnauzer, but she has a small white line on her chest that disqualifies her from participating in conformation.  So Dad has no real reason to groom her within the parameters of conformation--Linka's got a cut on a variation of the standard, which is more suited to her active lifestyle/running around in the woods all the time.  Okay, okay, I'm done with the exposition.  Here's the actual story:

My mom was holding Linka during a break between rallies.  She wandered over to the conformation show to admire the dogs.  A woman with another schnauzer came up to my mom and asked, "What are you doing here?  You're obviously not here for conformation."

"No," Mama Bear said.  "We're not here for the frou-frou dog show--we're in the competition for smart dogs."

Hops in the Right Direction: Summer Camp

When I was a kid, I went to summer camp.  For three weeks every year, I spent my days swimming, sailing, horseback riding, and making really terrible crafts.  Every moment, I was with at least eight other girls my age--a summer experience unheard of on a farm.

I had a lot of fun.  I made a lot of memories.  I did a lot of lip-synching to "Barbie Girl."*

****

I'm picking Prada and Stink up from my folks' house this weekend.  What with Kentucky and Mexico trips in two consecutive weeks, it seemed wisest to have my parents petsit rather than kennel Prada, who finds kennels stressful instead of fun. 

My parents have a large yard ringed by woods and two dogs of their own.  Prada's been able to play offleash outside everyday for weeks.  With other dogs who know her, and have learned to play a bit more gently with her (so as not to knock her over/piss her off).  Her days end in happy exhaustion. 

****

I wonder if my parents felt guilty about dropping me off and leaving me for several weeks, or if they worried that I was having more fun and learning more than I could hope to the rest of the summer at home.  If they did, I could assure them that as fun as camp was, it was great to come home to my family and relax.

And that's why I refuse to feel guilty about leaving Prada and bringing her back home.  I'm just going to assume that she has a great time while she's there and still misses me, even though I do live in a hot, cramped apartment with no yard and no other dogs for her to play with.  In the end, I just hope that it matters most that I've missed her too.

I Have My Chainsaw at the Ready

Because in the last five hours, I've been rained on, snowed on, hailed on, and nearly kited off by the wind--twice.

Because in the last day, I almost accidentally turned my car into a boat in an attempt to ford a river drive on one of the few streets that was still open.

Because my fifteen-minute commute has turned into a two-plus-hour one.

Obviously this is the beginning of the apocalypse.  And you know what always comes in handy in an apocalypse?  Chainsaws.


(True:  There are perks to living in a third floor walk-up.  Not only is my place not flooded, when the zombies come, I can take out the stairs and have an easily defensible position.  Now I just need to stockpile enough toilet paper...)


(Also true:  Women in post-apocalypse movies are never seen scrambling to find tampons in a world of ravaged supply lines.  Which is odd, because they do that often enough now, even with Super Walmarts on every corner.)

I'll Be Beating Them Off With a Stick For Sure

I'm thinking of signing up on one of those dating sites, and I'm hoping you guys can help me edit my profile.


Name:  Dana the Biped (Prada the Puff and Stink are freebies.  Or an entourage, if you think that's cooler.  Whatever.  We're a group package.  I really hope you don't have allergies.)

Date of Birth:  Old enough to buy beer, young enough to still get carded for buying beer.  Old enough for my great-aunts to think I'm a spinster, young enough to want to punch them for it.*

*I do not actually condone great-aunt-punching.

Occupation:  Full-time office drudge, part-time blogger/karaoke jockey.  I'm a "slash"--like the Midwest's version of Paris Hilton, except I know what Walmart is and my boobs are real.

About me:  Well, I've got a fair few skills that would help in a zombie apocalypse.  I know how to use a chainsaw and drive a manual transmission.  I'm great to have around in an emergency--I've set my kitchen on fire enough times to know that panicking helps nothing. 

I love to eat, so I'd be a great test subject for anyone who likes to cook.  And since I'm a total whiny wimp when I'm sick, you have the prime opportunity to play romantic hero by supplying me with tissues, cough drops, and books.  In my free time, I like watching Doctor Who and not wearing pants.

But seriously, how could you even edit such a work of genius and panache?


(True:  I'm limping through the whole day with just one can of Mt. Dew.  I'm impressed that I'm still conscious, frankly.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Paying It Forward--With a Giveaway!

Remember that time that my mom accidentally pet a 'possum instead of a cat?  And I implied 'possums are ugly monsters?  And then that led to this post, where I talked about marsupial fetishists collecting images for their pinup calendar?  And I unleashed this horror upon the world:

I'm sorry, you probably had repressed that.

Well, that calendar is now a thing, and you can get one FOR FREE.

Yes, that's right, a full, proper, 12 month, full-color calendar in all its perverted glory* can be yours.  FOR FREE.  All the images are brand new and created by my very very cool friend/cousin/faithful reader/marsupial fetishist Dianawesome.  Because she is awesome.

All I ask is that, in lieu of payment, you donate some time/money/old towels or other supplies to whatever animal shelter you like.  Then, email me at danathebiped@gmx.com with your address and details of how you helped a homeless pet.  That's it.  You could even lie about the help part if you really wanted, because I'm going on the honor system here.  In January, I'll post what we've all accomplished, and we can all be amazed and self-congratulatory over how fabulous we are.

Fabulous, right?

Because even though we're sick and twisted people, we've got squishy soft hearts.  And just in case you need a reminder of where to find your squishy soft heart, let me tell you a story.

In the spring of 2011, I adopted a three-legged Pomeranian with a slew of anxiety issues and a rapidly approaching "adopt by or else" date.  She was kind of raggedy:

But she had a great smile.  And she was terrified of being alone and also of slippery floors.  My friends and family gave me whatever rugs they could spare to help me accomodate her on my hardwood floors.

Fast forward through lots of obedience and relaxation classes for her, massage lessons for me, a ton of research about tripods and their bodies, and countless hours of training.  Fast forward to this Thanksgiving at my folks' house. 

Prada was in the living room on her rug.  Mom, Dad, and I were in the kitchen chatting.  And then this happened (which you might not be able to see very well, because it was taken on my old really dumb phone):

That's my dog on a hardwood floor, if you can't tell.  And this is why you should do something good.  Because every shelter pet that finds a home has a thousand little miracles in their lives, the most important being a family.  And also because 'possum faces on pinup girls are funny.  (And free!)


*(True:  I feel obligated to point out that a couple of the calendar possumgirls turned out a little grainy.  They'll all be perfect next year, though.)

The Circle of Life Can Suck It

As you may know, Prada had been coming to work with me there for a while during some work on my building.  Since it was reasonably warm, I could leave her out in the car without feeling too guilty.  (She's got a bed and a blanket out there, and she sleeps all day anyway, so don't feel too bad for her.)  And several times a day, I'd take her out to stretch her legs and go potty on the patch of grass in front of the building.

Near this patch of grass is a telephone pole.  After a couple days of regular potty outings, Prada had gained an observer:  a hawk that curiously enough only perched on that telephone pole around the times I took Prada out.

One more reason to keep your dog on a leash--your dog is less likely to be eaten.

Obviously, this story doesn't have a tragic ending--Prada is currently at home (yay, no more early morning hammering!), probably sleeping.  (I'm so jealous.)  Well, not tragic for Prada, that is.  Judging by the amount of feathers scattered on the lawn, either there was an epic pillow fight while I was gone or a small bird met a violent end.

Via

On a side note, if I hold Prada like Rafiki holds Simba, she dances.  I find it very amusing.  (She doesn't.)


(True:  My dad once hit a wild turkey with his car.  Do you know what happens when you hit a wild turkey going sixty miles an hour?  A blinding explosion of feathers.  Seriously.)

Vacation Fail.

I spent the long holiday weekend on a mini-vacation:  camping in northern Wisconsin.  I read, I shopped, I hiked, I ate marshmallows.  It was all very wholesome, if you discount the fact that I have contracted the plague.  I'm pretty sure a yeti spat on me in my sleep.  So if I don't post again this week, don't worry--I've just died, is all.

A Whole New Meaning to the Phrase "Double-Tap"

I did a rare thing this weekend--I took some vacation time.  My folks own property up in the northwoods of Wisconsin, a few of the most beautiful acres in the world, as far as I'm concerned.  Long weekends there mostly involve hanging out outside in one way or another.  We hit a couple of outdoor, dog-friendly art fairs, we took a short hike around Bond Falls (a dog-friendly path), and we went swimming on a dog-friendly beach.

I was particularly looking forward to the latter as this past winter, I'd purchased a life jacket for Prada but hadn't had the opportunity to give it a go yet.  Because Prada is usually uncomfortable in new environments, especially ones where she doesn't feel like she has her feet securely under her, I really didn't know what to expect of the excursion.  I needn't have worried.  Prada paddled her feet for a moment (she's got the instinct for swimming certainly), and then chilled out.  I mean, she relaxed so deeply she almost fell asleep.  I was pretty tickled to say the least.

We didn't stay long.  Even though the water was bathwater warm, it doesn't take much for little dogs to get chilled, and after about fifteen minutes, Prada started shivering and it was time to get out.  But hey, they were a very successful fifteen minutes--it may be time to look up one of the dog-friendly beaches in Chicago I keep hearing about.

Without the dogs, we went four-wheeling (sorry, it's a drought, I can't honestly say we went muddin'), and did some target practice.  My dad has this gorgeous 9mm pistol, a Colt MK IV Series 80, and I had the pleasure of emptying the better part of a clip at the tail end of the weekend.  I'm much more familiar with rifles (though I don't get much practice with those, either, but enough to know I prefer a little bolt-action rifle without too much kick), and after a brief run-down on the mechanics of it, I let loose. 

Our target wasn't exactly high-tech--just a hunter orange circle about four inches in diameter slapped on a pizza sheet, but it did the trick.  Or rather, it probably would have done if I could aim worth a damn.  I hit the tin maybe twice, but not the orange at all.  I'd never be able to hit a zombie in the chest, much less in the head.  I tended to hit a few inches below and to the left of the target--at least I'm consistent.

And now you'll know how to find me in the zombie apocolypse:  I'll be the one being run down by zombies missing their right testicle.

Via

(True:  I never quite understood why it is zombies need to be shot in the head.  Wouldn't fire work, too?  A flame-thrower probably wouldn't require such precise aim.  Just sayin'.)

Stinks of Desperation

I've mentioned before that I have a cat named Cinco.  Her name is Cinco because I got her on the fifth of May.  I never call her that.  Long, long ago, her name got shortened and bastardized to Stink, and Stink stuck.

Stink tries to pass as an elegant dame, but the truth is, she's a bit of a nutcase.  (Probably the reason we get on so well.)

Yesterday was Tuesday.  Tuesday is dog class day.  After spending an hour and a half focusing solely on Prada, I was trying to devote some one-on-one time to Stink.  I petted her for just a few minutes before she decided she didn't want my hands on her body.  She sniffed in disgust and flounced off the couch to the floor by my feet.

Most people have a footstool or coffee table in front of their couch to rest their feet on.  Not me:  I've got pedals.  Like for a bike.  I generally pedal when I'm watching TV or a movie, because that way I can talk myself into believing that eating an entire can of Pringles at the same time is okay--I probably break even, anyway.

Well, I was pedaling now, and Stink stared at my feet in that creepy way cats have that make you wonder if you're going to wake up with a limb half-eaten.  Then she very deliberately sat in such a way that every rotation of the pedals had my foot stroking her back.  I shifted the pedals, but she repositioned herself.  I shrugged, mocked her, and continued--and Stink stayed put for the next six chapters of the book I was reading.

Foot fetish?  Freaky.


(True:  I have no idea if the term "stubble kittens," referring to barn cat litters born in the fall--when the corn is just stubble--is used anywhere but our particular corner of rural Wisconsin.)

NOT the "Bee's Knees"

Bees.  They are assholes. 

(Note:  I should probably warn you that I group any striped, stinging insect, including wasps, hornets, and yellowjackets, under the umbrella term "bees."  Mostly because I can't be bothered to learn the difference between them.)

I'm sure the asshole business isn't news to anyone, but it still needs to be said.  I've had some interesting experiences with them, myself.

There was the time, for example, that kid-me was fetching a sleeping bag from the camper.  I often slept in there in the warmer months (because I was eleven and deeply uncool), so the sleeping bag was not rolled.  This was a lucky thing, because since the last time I had overnighted there, a nest of angry bees had taken up residence in the open vent. 

They weren't pleased with having their space invaded, and they swarmed the bee-jeezus (sorry, I couldn't help myself) out of me.  Being particularly quick-thinking when fueled by adrenaline and sheer terror, I tossed the sleeping bag over my head burka-style and escaped with just three stings.

A more amusing (to me) time was when a bee started chasing my dad, and he ran all around the yard yelping and swatting at it.  It's the one kind of creepy-crawly that my manly-man dad cannot handle.  (Hi, Dad!)

Or that time my model friend--Yes, I do have a model friend.  No, I will not give you her number.  Creep.--took a swig out of a can of Pepsi wherein a bee reposed.  As it turns out, "bee-stung lips" is not a beauty phrase to be taken literally.

But mostly, I hate bees because they live in my shower.

I am totally judging this guy.  Also his sweatpants.  Via

(True:  "The bee's knees" orginally meant something small and insignificant, way back in the late 1700s.  I know that because I read it here.)

(Update:  Also relevant?  This.

The Picture Is a Euphamism

I've always been a keen (if not particularly talented) horseback rider.  Growing up, my family had a very naughty pony whose favorite activities included taking the bit between her teeth and then smearing your leg on the fence while running perpendicular to the direction of her body. 

All new riders should learn on a pony like Star.  It'd have the advantage of culling the easily frightened, and teach the rest that yes, you do have a 800 pound plus animal under you who may be harder-headed than even you.  They would also learn the most important lesson in riding:

Sometimes, it's just you, the quadruped, and almost certain death. 

Sometimes, though, it just hurts like hell.

My first job, as I have mentioned here, was at a summer camp.  Being a mostly useless sort, I assisted in the arts and crafts department and in the stables. 

I wasn't certified to teach English riding (and I certainly didn't have the talent to seek certification), which meant my role was pretty much limited to cleaning tack (a good day) or hauling poop (most days).  One lucky day, though, a group of campers was going on a trail ride, and being particularly short-staffed that afternoon, I was invited to go along for the ride (pun!) to help supervise the girls.

The horses were to the last, hard-mouthed, old, and very accustomed to the camp lifestyle--that is, they knew that all they ever had to do was follow the horse in front of them, nose-to-horsebutt.  These horses had no setting but "autopilot."

Cue the startled rabbit.  It ran away and lived happily ever after.  I, however, didn't think I was going to live that long.  My horse, a brown paint whose name I don't remember but was probably something like "Bear" or "Jerry" skittered in a little half-jump.  Because we hadn't gone faster than a very, very slow nose-to-horsebutt shuffle/walk, I was sitting pretty relaxed and not paying very much attention.

I was not unseated.  That probably would have been better.  Instead, as I started to fly over the horse's neck, I gripped with my legs and returned my weight onto the beast--but not the saddle.  No, I had flown over the pommel and landed hard the neck.  Which, if you don't know, is angular.  You might even say sharp.

Or you could just say, "Oh god, kill me now..."

Via

(True:  This is one of the many reasons I don't like to think of rabbits as being a pet-type animal...)

Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts

Note:  Names have been omitted to protect me from people who know where I live.

Note the Second:  Any rodents harmed in the making of this post would have been dead of old age by now anyway.  It was quick, and more painless.

For the animal, anyway.  Rather less so for the people involved.

Via

Gophers.  They are a problem on a farm, where they burrow in fields.  Those burrows can collapse under the weight of machinery and cause damage--not something you want on a several hundred thousand dollar machine.  Their gnawing damages crops.

Year ago, an older man used to offer his son fifty cents for every gopher he killed.  As the younger man was concluding the first meeting of his new girlfriend and his parents, he saw a gopher run into its burrow out in the adjacent field.

The young man grabbed a shotgun, a baseball bat, and a bucket of water.

(This is not going to end well for any party involved.)

He gave the the bucket and the bat to his girlfriend and stationed her next the the hole he'd seen the gopher go into.  Searching out the other end of the burrow, he planned on shooting the gopher flushed out by the water poured down the girlfriend's end.  In case the gopher decided to go for a swim and come out the girlfriend's end, she was ready with the bat.

(Can you see what's about to happen?)

Now, this girlfriend was a sporting type, and went along with this plan.  That might not have been the best idea.  Especially given the fact that the man got a little overeager after the flushed gopher ran, half-drowned, out the girlfriend's end of the burrow--

He took the shot.  (At the gopher, not his girlfriend.)  With a shotgun, I might remind you.

The gopher exploded.  All over the girlfriend.  Who had a baseball bat in her hand. 




Via   (Except with squishy gopher guts instead of bolts.)


Later, the man's father, who usually gave his son fifty cents a gopher, gave the girlfriend a whole dollar.

Best part?  She married the guy.


(True:  A woodchuck would chuck all the wood he could if a woodchuck could chuck wood.)

Jemma recommends a bath.  Or twelve.

The Warm and Fuzzies

Ahem.  You may have heard--I grew up in the country, on a bitty little hobby farm (i.e., my parents weren't professional farmers, we just had lots of farmtype animals).  A good half my stories from my childhood come from interesting interactions with these farmtype animals, or those animals that just wandered into the barns to mooch food.

Let's meet some of my childhood companions, shall we?

'Possums.  We had them.  Not on purpose, but the oversized rats seem insanely attracted to cat food, much like the aliens in District 9.  They're about as cute, too, but much less sympathetic.  My mom was feeding the barn cats one evening, and either the power was out or she hadn't bothered to turn the light on.  In any case, she was in the mostly-dark barn, and when one of the cats wound its way around her ankles, she bent down to pet it--and came face-to-face with a 'possum who just wanted some lovin'.

Wanted:  Cat food and some sweet, sweet love for "attractive" single monster.

Shudder.

Sunny is way cuter.

This Title Won't Be Emusing to Anyone But Me.

Yeah, puns.  I like them.  So did Shakespeare, so I'm giving myself a pass on this one.  Please be warned that this post starts out as a memory and quickly descends into madness.




'Sup?


Emus.  They are big.  And they are really pretty fast.  According to Wikipedia, they can go as fast as 31 miles per hour.  Apparently, their legs are so strong they can rip through metal wire fences.  Maybe that explains it.

As you may have heard, I grew up in the country.  A few miles down the road was an emu farm.  No, I don't know why people would farm emus either, except maybe for the world's biggest friggin' omelets. 



Green ham, anyone?

Anyway when I was little, a bridge by our farm was out for several years, which made us go the long way around to town and near the emu farm on a regular basis.  One day, as my mom drove me to town for one event or another, we saw a blur of brown in the field to our right.  Accustomed to having to stop for deer, my mom slowed way down.  As you may have guessed, the blur was not a deer.  It was an emu, and it was not only keeping pace with our much-slowed-but-still-pretty-fast mini van, it was edging ahead. 

That emu was daring us to a race.

My mom floored it.  Defeated, the emu disappeared into a cornfield.

I don't know what happened to the emu.  We weren't even very close to the emu farm when we saw it, maybe a mile or two away, so perhaps it was an emu on the lam.  That's how I like to think of it, still out there today.  In fact, I've imagined a whole life for that emu where it is skulking in the patchy woods and various cornfields, with a nice family of turkeys for companions.  And when a hunter uses his call and the turkey family falls for it, the emu goes with them and scares the bejeezus out of the hunter, who wants to tell his hunter buddies all about the emu who now thinks it's a turkey, but nobody will believe him and he is run out of town under accusations of lunacy.  And then the mayor almost hits the emu on the road, but misses him, and then our road finally gets one of these:

Which will promptly be defaced with a red dot on the "nose" like every other animal crossing sign in Wisconsin, inciting a local legend wherein Santa's sleigh is not pulled by ought-to-be-flightless reindeer, but rather by ought-to-be-flightless birds, which sort of makes more sense, anyway.

(True:  There is an Icelandic Christmas legend in which a giant cat named Jólakötturinn eats children who don't get new clothes in time for Christmas.  If I ever have kids, I'm totally selling them on it.)

Sunny gets along with cats, but she'd rather avoid Jólakötturinn, if it's all the same to you.