"Suzaaaannnne! Come look at this." Wendy's voice rang out from downstairs. I found her in the dining room, dancing from foot to foot, hugging herself tightly.
"Pixie brought us a present." She pointed toward the back door. Together we peered out to the porch and observed a body lying spread-eagle face up on the step.
"It's a squirrel!" I cringed.
"No, it's a frog!" she squealed.
I peeked again, more closely.
"No honey. It's a squirrel. A baby squirrel."
She peeked again herself.
"You're right!"
We both made sad pouty faces and her dance escalated to spasticity as she herky-jerkily fled the dining room.
I'm not used to such girlish behavior from my partner. Typically when a dead creature is discovered on our property, I squeal while she gets all up close and personal, scientifically curious, making relevant but weird comments like, "Definitely a boy. Look at the size of his scrote!" At times my mind has whirled considering preventative options should she suddenly decide to do a full autopsy.
But today, it was me behaving scientific and un-oogified.
"I'll need to take a picture!" I said impulsively.
Perhaps all the crime TV I watch has had an effect.
I grabbed the camera and got to work. As I photographed the unfortunate and quite dead baby squirrel I observed nary a mark on him to indicate the manner of his demise. No blood, no guts, no gore. I noted his not-yet-bushy tail curled almost artistically away from his body, his babyish ears, his disproportionately large feet, his delicate whiskers and, yes, his package. I imagined Pixie carrying him softly in her mouth like she does with her stuffed toys: trotting around the yard, through the doggie door, onto the porch, gently depositing him on the step.
My scientific curiosity fled as did my photographic zeal.
Wendy, by then, had joined me on the porch. She seemed more herself and offered to dispose of the body.
I mumbled an om mani pedme hung and left her to it.
"Pixie brought us a present." She pointed toward the back door. Together we peered out to the porch and observed a body lying spread-eagle face up on the step.
"It's a squirrel!" I cringed.
"No, it's a frog!" she squealed.
I peeked again, more closely.
"No honey. It's a squirrel. A baby squirrel."
She peeked again herself.
"You're right!"
We both made sad pouty faces and her dance escalated to spasticity as she herky-jerkily fled the dining room.
I'm not used to such girlish behavior from my partner. Typically when a dead creature is discovered on our property, I squeal while she gets all up close and personal, scientifically curious, making relevant but weird comments like, "Definitely a boy. Look at the size of his scrote!" At times my mind has whirled considering preventative options should she suddenly decide to do a full autopsy.
But today, it was me behaving scientific and un-oogified.
"I'll need to take a picture!" I said impulsively.
Perhaps all the crime TV I watch has had an effect.
I grabbed the camera and got to work. As I photographed the unfortunate and quite dead baby squirrel I observed nary a mark on him to indicate the manner of his demise. No blood, no guts, no gore. I noted his not-yet-bushy tail curled almost artistically away from his body, his babyish ears, his disproportionately large feet, his delicate whiskers and, yes, his package. I imagined Pixie carrying him softly in her mouth like she does with her stuffed toys: trotting around the yard, through the doggie door, onto the porch, gently depositing him on the step.
My scientific curiosity fled as did my photographic zeal.
Wendy, by then, had joined me on the porch. She seemed more herself and offered to dispose of the body.
I mumbled an om mani pedme hung and left her to it.
.
11 comments:
This is a fantastic post. Heart-breaking, exciting, and tender. My favorite part is Pixie's gentleness.
That and the description of Wendy dancing.
That post was great. It reminds me of my girlfriend and I. Outwardly, I'm the more butch one, but I'm the one who squeals when there's a hornet in the room...she comes to my rescue and kills it. <3
We could have used you two on our block last week. There was a dead possum on a tree lawn one morning. Kodiak and I saw it and were amazed at how big it was. Even more amazing was that no one picked up for a whole week. It just lay bloated and disgusting day after day, until one night, something came along and tore all its fur off. Finally someone must have tossed the carcass in the trash. I volunteered to scoop it up the day I saw it, but Kathy wouldn't hear of it. No photos, though. You weren't here!
Wow. That was a wonderfully written fun story! Is Pixie a cat? What a great name.
Visualizing Wendy hurkey-jerkily bounding out of the room. HAHA!
The best part that made me chortle heartily was Wendy examining old corpses & exclaiming about a big ole scrotem. HAHAHAHAH!! Classic.
Wonderfully exciting and sweet tale of role reversal and teamwork.
Just loverly. :)
I think Wendy's newly discovered flirty and chatty selves are taking over.
normally i would say:
"so...theres pictures"
this time... hmm...
So, size does matter to Wendy? Guard your packages, boys!
don't tempt me weese... I still have the photos...
Wow, I was so thankful you didn't end up posting that picture because I would've screamed from my desk here at work! How sad. A baby squirrel. I don't know how I would've handled that. Anything "baby size" and lifeless would just tear my heart out.
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