Thursday, July 14, 2011

The night of wanna-be upchuck and loud squawking

Last night was clearly not meant to be.

1) The golden has taken to sleeping on the floor next to my side of the bed. This is great and very loving, but whenever I want to get up to take care of anything (see 1) and 2), below), it means committing great feats of gymnastic proportions to hurdle myself over his gigantic body. And yes, he squeaks if you step on him... and possibly scurries out of your way, but that also means he'll get himself stuck under the bed.

2) 1am and I hear the corgi cough and barf. GREAT. Animal puke. Just what I want to deal with at 1am. Yes yes, you can tell me how someday, I'll have kids and want to deal with animal puke. But, I don't have kids yet for a reason- I like being asleep at 1am. Someday, yes. I'll get up at 1am to deal with God-knows-what the kidlet tyke folk want to throw at me.

Knowing that animal barf is much easier dealt with asap (no potential for tracking it around the room, stepping in it, it soaking into wood floors, etc), I get up.

I see a dark spot on the floor. A dark puddle. I hurdle over the golden (see 1), above) and avoid the puddle. I tell Bob (in case he's wondering why his wife is performing gymnastics at 1am) to close his eyes and I turn on the light. The corgi is laying against the wall, doing her "I'm holding perfectly still so you won't get mad at me" thing, which means she looks REALLY guilty because her eyes are huge and following my every movement like some creepy animatronic person from the Haunted House at Disneyland.

Now, it's 1am. I have night and day contacts, so I wear them to bed, which means my eyes are typically pretty bleary when I wake up.

Bleary-eyed, I stare at the puddle.

It's black.

"SHIT!" I think. "The dog's sick and clearly puking up partially-digested blood. We need to both get up and analyze the situation and possibly take her into the 24-hour emergency vet."

(Keep in mind the corgi's eyes are still following me around, though she has not moved ANY other part of her body.)

I wake up Bob, urgently mentioning that he needs to get up because clearly the dog has some sort of problem.

Bob sits up. Puts on his glasses. Looks at the puddle. Looks at me.

"Dear, those are your dark underwear that the dog dragged out of the laundry."

3) 4:30am. Awake to the sound of LOUD squawking and cackling. Now, we're allowed chickens in our yard, but clearly, chickens have to go if they make too much noise (we greatly treasure our neighbors' liking of us). The hens have NEVER made this much noise before. They could give roosters a run for their money.

Again, bleary eyed, I hurdle out of bed over the pile of the golden dog and go to the window (which was closed... that is how loud they were). There are two hens down on the bottom tier, yodeling their little heads off. Not seeing the third (and my favorite) hen and thinking the worst, I throw a robe of the PJs, grab my slippers (which golden dog was covering, of course), and head outside.

In the barely-lit light of morning, there are the two hens by the back door. Suddenly, a third figure appears on top the coop, at the TOP tier of our yard. It's my favorite hen.... who sees me and promptly begins singing a LOUD, hen opera of sorts to exclaim how excited she is about, I don't know... the day? Me? Life?

Mortified, I march up the hill, grab Layla the hen, and march down the hill to the patio. The point of this? I don't know. WHAT was I goign to do with a loud hen once I reached the patio? What was I thinking? I'm chalking this up to it being 4am. Remember, I thought dark underwear was dog vomit.

The chicken yodeling continues down below. SO what do I decide to do?

Release the hounds.

It works.

The dogs show interest in the hens whenever they're loud, but when the dogs show interest, the hens shut up. This situation works, and I go back to sleep, this time NOT having to catapult myself over the lug of a golden.

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