Vi Chronicles: I Found This Bunny For You

Vi lived in the moment, and in all those moments she lived, her goal was to have a good time as often as possible.  On Fridays, this generally involved an evening at the local Amvets, feeding quarters into the slot machines and sipping sombreros made of Allen's Coffee Brandy and milk.  When the bar closed, whichever family member had delivered her to the Amvets would drive Vi home.  On the way, she would keep her eyes peeled for stray animals.  If she found one she would bring it home and give it to me.

Thankfully, after an oil burner tank's worth of Allen's Coffee Brandy and milk, it wasn't all that easy to spot stray animals on the side of the road in the middle of the night.  Still, twice, she succeeded.

The first time, she gave me a baby bunny.  It was adorable.  I must have been around 8-years-old. When I recount my childhood, age is often determined by which house my mother lived in at the time.  This house was not the one by the lake.  It was the ranch, surrounded by woods, on a lonely stretch of road.  They must not have lived there long because I couldn't drive you there if I wanted to, but it is the house where a lot of my Vi memories took place.  Maybe it was a particularly good year for remembering things, or maybe it's just that a lot of memorable things happened there.  I don't remember.  At any rate, a bunny was a delightful gift to receive in the wee hours of the morning.  Vi didn't believe in waiting 'til the sun came up.  Surprises were best delivered, warm and cuddly, with much hilarity, in the middle of the night.

The bunny slept in a box next to my bed for the rest of that night.  The next day, my Step Dad, Tony, built a hutch  in the backyard where the bunny lived happily ever after, until the great bunny massacre, which happened a couple days later.  I wasn't there at the time-I only lived with my mom on weekends-but when I came back the next weekend the bunny was history.  My family didn't sugar coat things.  There was no farm with other baby bunnies in an idyllic bunny environment, nothing like that, just the stark reality of the situation, which was that some fucking raccoon ate my rabbit.

The second time Vi found a wild animal after a night at the bars and brought it home at 2 am, I was 20.  The house was in Portland and my college roommate, Jeannie, and I were living with Vi and Tony for the summer, spending our days at the beach, hitting the clubs at night, and waiting impatiently on Sunday mornings for Tony's mom to deliver her regular spaghetti and meatballs special.  It had been a splendid summer and a wild animal arriving at two a.m. only made it better.  This time, the animal was a baby skunk whose mother had been run over.

I know it doesn't seem like a good gift, but baby skunks are adorable.  They haven't developed their sprayers yet, so they are a lot like kittens.  We kept our skunk in the bathtub and named him Pepe.

It wasn't long before we realized that we were not well equipped for skunk care. We set about finding a new home for Pepe, and when I say "we", I mean Jeannie and me, as Vi had already forgotten we had a pet skunk.  Eventually, we found a nice farm in the country that adopted wildlife found on the roadside and we sent Pepe there to play in green pastures with other orphaned animals.

At least that's the story I tell myself.

Chicken out

See?  Like a cute little kitten

Halloween Decorating

It was late. BigB and littlb had gone to bed.  Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB) was shuffling around in the basement, as usual, and I was sitting in this very same spot just minding my own business.

TWLITB popped his head in the office door.  "Mom?"

"TWLITB?"

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing much.  What are you doing?"

"Nothing much."

*crickets*

TWLITB said, "Remember a couple days ago when I told you I thought there was a skunk in the window well?"

"Yesss"

"I think it's still there."

"Oh.  Wow.  O.k. we'll take a look in the morning."

Except I couldn't just leave the poor skunk there for another night, now, could I? Because it had already been a couple days since the first time TWLITB mentioned that he thought a skunk was trapped, and if it was the same skunk, then the poor thing had been down there without water or food for far too long.  I felt guilty for forgetting J.D.'s mention of the skunk when he first noticed it.

For those of you who might live someplace where foundations are not the norm, window wells are constructed when you have windows in your basement.  Ours are about three feet deep.  When an animal goes exploring and finds his way into one, it usually requires some help getting back out.

"Why are skunks so stupid?" my grumpy, guilty Chicken heart asked?  "Because they just are.  That's why God gave them such odorific super powers; to make up for their tiny brains.", my (equally tiny) Chicken brain answered.

I put on my coat, my gloves and my baseball hat (to protect against skunk odor and low-flying bats).  I hunted down a working flashlight and tore the garage apart looking for a long enough piece of wood to form a ramp.  Then I trudged out to the front of the house and flashed the beam into the well.

The good news was that there was no skunk in the well.

The bad news was that there was one very sorry looking possum down there.  He looked up at me and  I saw he was close to done.  He probably thought my flashlight beam was his ticket to the other side.  I slid the old shutter I had found into the window well to form a ramp.  This had worked quite well the last time a skunk had been stuck there.  The possum didn't look healthy enough to make the climb, however.

I went back inside and looked up possums on the internet. Finally, something useful to look up.  Not that the fang length of a baby vampire, or the relative amount of time it would take to walk to California aren't useful things to know, it is just that the need to know these things was not as immediate as the need to find out how sharp the teeth might be of the animal stuck in our window well.  Pretty sharp, as it turns out.  Also, I learned that possums like fruit.

By this time, TWLITB, alerted to my nocturnal ramblings, had emerged once again from the basement.  We discussed the situation and made a plan.  We gathered a bowl, a bottle of water, a banana and some strawberries and then we went back out to visit our new pet, Pat. We weren't sure whether we had a girl or boy possum but we are fond of alliteration and old SNL skits.

Our plan was to restore Pat's strength so that he/she would be able to climb out of the well.  First, we tossed in the bowl and then we poured water into it. Pat fell upon the bowl and shortly peered up at us as if to say, "May I 'ave some more, please"?  We laughed.  Then we noticed the neighbors were out on their porch watching us, so we  lowered our voices.  We filled the bowl again, then tossed down the strawberries and banana in case Pat wanted to make a smoothie later.  Then we went to bed.  I'm assuming the neighbors did, too.

Pat was still there in the morning.  I worried that the shutter was too short, making the angle too steep for Pat to climb.  I had to leave for work, but I left TWLITB with instructions to keep Pat watered throughout the day and scout out a longer length of wood.

When I returned from work I put off checking on Pat.  I had a glass of wine and waited for it to get dark. Mostly, I didn't want BigB to catch on to our possum problem because BigB is not a fan of urban wildlife.  I was afraid he would insist on calling animal control to remove Pat from the well and I didn't spend the previous night restoring Pat just to see him exterminated.  I also was a little worried that Pat didn't make it through the night, in which case my problem would have become one of removing a dead possum from a window well, and then dealing with my guilt.  I decided that if we had a dead possum,  I would consult BigB immediately.

Live adorable possums, my jurisdiction.  Gross dead possums, BigB's jurisdiction.  New rule.

I always get creative when  I drink wine and so it wasn't long before I had hatched another plan to free Pat (Get it?  Hatched?).  After dark I found a large basket with a handle, and some rope. I was trying to be very quiet so that BigB wouldn't ask questions.  I sneaked out through the front door with the basket, the rope and the flashlight.  TWLITB heard me rustling around outside the window and came to help. We were arguing over what kind of knot to tie on the basket handle when BigB suddenly appeared around the side of the house.

"What are you two doing?" he asked?

TWLITB and I looked at each other.

"Decorating for Halloween?",  I replied.

TWLITB snorted, BigB stared at me, and Littleb showed up in the doorway.

The neighbors were back on the porch.

"Decorating with Possums.  They are very Halloweeny, don't you think?"

"There's a possum in the window well, is that it?"

"Maybe"

"And you're trying to get it out?"

"Well.  You wouldn't want to have to drag a dead possum out of the window well, would you?  That's kind of the alternative."

LittleB said, "I want to see the possum!"

TWLITB shined the flashlight into the well.

The possum was gone.  Operation Free Pat was a success.

A cheer went up throughout the neighborhood.

In my mind.

BigB sighed heavily and went back in to watch the game.  TWLITB retired to the basement.  Littleb got on the computer to look up possums.  The neighbors retreated, relieved that Chicken had saved the neighborhood from a dead possum outbreak.

I poured another glass of wine and basked in the glow of a job well done.

Chicken out

Cute, right?  And Halloweeny?

Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs

During a beautiful fall weekend in 2001 the Chicken family hosted an open house.

Twenty minutes before the start of the open house, someone saw Algernon streak across the kitchen floor. Algernon was one of S's three pet mice.  The mice were okay, as pets go, except for Algernon, who should have been named Houdini because he was always escaping from his tank.

Chaos ensued as we all chased Algernon, who promptly hid, jeering at us in mouse speak from behind various pieces of furniture.  He was enjoying the action, having been confined for several  days since his last break out.  It was now quarter 'til mouse infestation accusation time.  I gathered the three kids together for an impromptu brainstorming session.  We decided that we needed a trap.  S found a shoe box and some string, J offered up Ccoa Puffs, and R found a stick.  I grabbed a section of newspaper.

We put the newspaper on the floor in the general area of the last Algernon sighting.  Then we put a few Cocoa Puffs on the paper.  The shoe box was positioned at an angle over the cocoa puffs and propped up with the stick, to which we had tied the string.  Then we cleared out and waited for Algernon to go Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

It took about five minutes, but eventually Algernon stealthily approached the Cocoa Bait.  He sat on his haunches under the shady cabana and picked up a puff with his paws.  He took a tentative nibble, cocked his head to the side, and announced, "Not bad. Not bad at all!".  That's when I yanked the string and the box fell down, trapping the cocky little bastard underneath.

A raucous cheer went up inside the hen house and high fives were exchanged all around.  I wrapped the sides of the newspaper around the box and flipped it over.  S slammed the shoe box top over the newspaper.

The door bell rang.  It was Go Time.  I answered the door, with a welcoming smile on my face and a shoe box tucked snugly under one arm.

Chicken out

This mouse looks like Algernon but, apparently, favors cheese doodles.

Every Fucking Day with Bernie

Hi  World,


When Teenager-who-lives-in-the-basement (TWLITB) was much younger, he begged me for a pet lizard. Many times over, I said no.  I was consistent about it.  I didn't say "maybe", I didn't say "When you are older", I didn't say "If you promise to take care of it".  I just said no. Reptiles creep me out.  I sure didn't want one living in my house.

One weekend, TWLITB went to visit his Dad.  He called me from the pet store.  "Guess what, Mom!  Dad said he'd buy me a lizard if you say it's ok and I found one I like, he's so cute, Mom.  Can I? CanIcanIcanIcanI?  Can I?"

Oy.  I  didn't see that one coming.  What do you DO in a situation like that?  Be the bad, mean Mom who never lets anyone do anything or have anything that makes them happy? Unlike Fun Dad (FD)? Or do I become the unfairly bamboozled and therefore bitter Mom who knows without a doubt she'll be taking care of this dumb lizard for the next however many years while FD plays golf in another state?

How long do lizards live, anyway?  Like two years?  Five years?  Oh.  Twenty years.

TWLITB  brought his new pets home and 30 seconds were spent admiring the tiny alligators in their new place of residence on top of TWLITB's bureau.  FD forgot to mention that he splurged on two lizards. Apparently, lizards need companions.  I was thinking the lizards could eat apples and table scraps.  I was not anticipating the bi-weekly purchase of live crickets.  I took TWLITB to the pet store to get some "food" for his new pets.  I was extra nice to the people in the pet store because I figured we'd be getting to know each other pretty well over the next twenty years.

"Now TWLITB", I said, "Feeding these lizards is going to be your responsibility.  And you'll need to change their water regularly, too.  You know that, right?"

"I love these  lizards, Mom. I'm going to take great care of them. Don't worry"

TWLITB fed them once, and after watching the lizards attack and gobble all the live crickets as they desperately looked for a place to hide, he immediately lost interest in  them. As foreseen in  the deck of Mother Tarot I carry in my head, lizard care was transferred into my incapable hands.

The first lizard died a couple months later.  We  saved the second lizard with an IV.  He barely made it. To say I was upset is an understatement.  My whole argument against having pets was that I had too many kids and plants that I was barely keeping alive.  The last thing I needed, in those years, was two more lives on my hands.  I resolved to take better care of the remaining lizard.  I also decided to give him  a new name because I could  not remember what TWLITB had originally named him.  I renamed him "Wizard".
Wizard the (Pinball) Lizard.  Catchy, right?

The (Pinball) Wizard and I meandered along for another few years.  I managed to keep him fed and watered and alive. He still existed in a tank in TWLITB's room.  I cringed when I thought about what his life must be like, but he kept growing, and shedding his skin, and growing.  I had to assume that I wasn't totally sucking, but I continued to put feelers out to the lizard adoption community to see if I could find him a new home.  In the meantime, I got chummy with the pet store folks.  We bonded over American Idol and cat memes.  Then littleb was born.

Littleb truly loves animals-both imaginary and real.  By the time littleb was three,  we had a menagerie of assorted pets, mostly invisible. As soon as he could talk, he re-named The Wizard, "Bernie", and the name stuck. Littleb enthusiastically participated in trips to the pet store, where he was soon offered a part-time position as a pet petter.  He helped feed Bernie and change his water.  He enjoyed watching Bernie consume his meals, which was, in truth, a little worrisome.  Eventually, littleb earned a goldfish he promptly named Goldie, and he found himself dividing his time between Bernie and Goldie. It was a lot for a four-year-old, and Bernie suffered for it.

In 2012, two things happened.  Goldie the Goldfish passed away and I took up yoga.  Littleb had more time and I developed a heightened gratefulness for all living things, not to mention increased flexibility.  Bernie's sad existence in TWLITB's room, long since abandoned by TWLITB in favor of the basement, began to weigh on my (enlightened) conscience.  I worried that Bernie was too isolated and, as a result, depressed.  We decided to make Bernie's senior years more enjoyable by moving him to a sunny new condo in our pantry.  Bernie's new digs had amazing views of our driveway, not to mention our smoking hot new Camry, and in the first several months he shed and grew three times.  Bernie developed a new lease on life.

Every day, when I got  home from work, Bernie was there to greet me and talk about my day.  Unlike BigB, who couldn't stop interjecting with a whiny,  "Let me tell you about MY day", Bernie was an excellent listener.  Also, Bernie provided moral support as I went about my daily chores.  He was there for me during the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry folding, etc.  It was more support than I typically got from the other males in the house.

It wasn't all fun and games with Bernie and I.  Bernie could be a little boring, for one thing.  He was so quiet, there were times when I wondered whether he was really listening.  Also, watching  him eat was painful.   And the skin shedding drove me up the wall.  Who needs a new skin every three months, puhleeze?  But Bernie was there for me and I was there for him.

Bernie passed away in March, 2013.

Bernie,  wherever you are (I suspect the ocean), I am sorry you never got to feel another warm spring sun.  I'm sorry your diet consisted of gross things but I hope you enjoyed them. Thank you for teaching me that reptiles are also God's creatures and thank you for your company all those lonely nights when my boys were off doing stupid boy things.  I'll always remember you fondly. And the next time FD offers to buy one of my kids a pet, I'll say, "YES!  What a marvelous idea.  As long as he lives at Dad's house."  That  wisdom is the legacy you left me, Bernie.  You will be missed.

Chicken out

R.I.P. Bernie  2002-2012