Ray Bradbury died yesterday.
Anyone who is not appalled that this news isn't featured on the front fucking page of every newspaper in America has no soul.
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
How To Get An Opposum Out Of Your Dryer
It is 11:01 and I have just heard a gunshot, close, followed a second later by a man yelling 'Aaa!"
I didn't see anyone outside. Before you castigate me for being a reckless dipshit, know that where I was sitting when these events occurred there are three huge picture windows. If I was going to be seen by anyone, I would have already been seen, if you catch my drift. All I had to do was turn my head slightly. Nope. Nope. Nope.
So now what do I do? Nothing is what I do. Absolutely nothing. Which freaks me the fuck out.
None of this would have gone through my mind when I lived in Seattle. I'd have heard the noises, it would have been someone getting shot, and I would have unobtrusively slipped to the floor and butt-scooched my way into another room to call the police. Same as when I lived in Portland. That's what you did. It was tough on pants.
But here, since I didn't see anything, I can't do anything...except sit here and worry about spree murderers.
The thing is, people fire guns a lot out here. Back when I lived in a city, you heard gunfire anywhere, it meant one thing, you did one thing in response, and that was that. You at least were left with the illusion of safety, depending on the police department involved. Situation finished. Here...? Not so simple.
Sound could simply be travelling particularly well that day. It could be hunters up in the foothills, it could be a nearby farmer killing a bull calf, it could be smugglers, or just kids shooting bottles off a rock. It could be a drive-by across the border in Huntingdon (thats right Canada, don't be all smug like 'Oh, there's no gun crime here, we're a civilized country' damn old cheese-worshipping puck-humpers with your 'eh?' and your goofyass money.) It could be someone putting down a dog. It could be someone test-firing a bird cannon. Shit, for that matter maybe someone found a possum in their dryer. Talking to the appliance recycler, he says this happens all the time. They come in through the outside vent (the possums, not appliance recyclers.) You generally don't freak the fuck out about it, though; you leave the laundry room open to the outside and throw some dog food out there to bait him in the right direction. Then you slam the door behind him and buy a louvered metal vent cover. A surprising number of dryers get shot that way, though. Imagine opening your dryer one morning and there's an ugly greasy possum in there with a mouth full of underpants; you're going to freak the fuck out. Anyone would.
When I first moved to the country I was played for a rube by an Australian Shepard dog, who herded me, in my car mind you, all the way down the street and into the driveway of his masters' home then ran around the house in furious circles barking. "Aha!" I thought, veteran viewer of the old 'Lassie' series, "His master is probably in there seriously injured and unable to reach the phone!" (I've also seen one too many LifeAlert commercials.) So I zoomed back to the police department and filed a report. Eyes were rolled, my friends. Then there was the time I called the cops one midnight because I thought someone was trying to break down my door, and it turned out to be another dog. It can be said that I am known for goofy reports down at the cop shop. It might also be said that dogs like to fuck with me. I'll just sit here ignoring the impulse to call the police, and hope the next knock at my door isn't the worlds most polite spree murderer. Or a possum.
I didn't see anyone outside. Before you castigate me for being a reckless dipshit, know that where I was sitting when these events occurred there are three huge picture windows. If I was going to be seen by anyone, I would have already been seen, if you catch my drift. All I had to do was turn my head slightly. Nope. Nope. Nope.
So now what do I do? Nothing is what I do. Absolutely nothing. Which freaks me the fuck out.
None of this would have gone through my mind when I lived in Seattle. I'd have heard the noises, it would have been someone getting shot, and I would have unobtrusively slipped to the floor and butt-scooched my way into another room to call the police. Same as when I lived in Portland. That's what you did. It was tough on pants.
But here, since I didn't see anything, I can't do anything...except sit here and worry about spree murderers.
The thing is, people fire guns a lot out here. Back when I lived in a city, you heard gunfire anywhere, it meant one thing, you did one thing in response, and that was that. You at least were left with the illusion of safety, depending on the police department involved. Situation finished. Here...? Not so simple.
Sound could simply be travelling particularly well that day. It could be hunters up in the foothills, it could be a nearby farmer killing a bull calf, it could be smugglers, or just kids shooting bottles off a rock. It could be a drive-by across the border in Huntingdon (thats right Canada, don't be all smug like 'Oh, there's no gun crime here, we're a civilized country' damn old cheese-worshipping puck-humpers with your 'eh?' and your goofyass money.) It could be someone putting down a dog. It could be someone test-firing a bird cannon. Shit, for that matter maybe someone found a possum in their dryer. Talking to the appliance recycler, he says this happens all the time. They come in through the outside vent (the possums, not appliance recyclers.) You generally don't freak the fuck out about it, though; you leave the laundry room open to the outside and throw some dog food out there to bait him in the right direction. Then you slam the door behind him and buy a louvered metal vent cover. A surprising number of dryers get shot that way, though. Imagine opening your dryer one morning and there's an ugly greasy possum in there with a mouth full of underpants; you're going to freak the fuck out. Anyone would.
When I first moved to the country I was played for a rube by an Australian Shepard dog, who herded me, in my car mind you, all the way down the street and into the driveway of his masters' home then ran around the house in furious circles barking. "Aha!" I thought, veteran viewer of the old 'Lassie' series, "His master is probably in there seriously injured and unable to reach the phone!" (I've also seen one too many LifeAlert commercials.) So I zoomed back to the police department and filed a report. Eyes were rolled, my friends. Then there was the time I called the cops one midnight because I thought someone was trying to break down my door, and it turned out to be another dog. It can be said that I am known for goofy reports down at the cop shop. It might also be said that dogs like to fuck with me. I'll just sit here ignoring the impulse to call the police, and hope the next knock at my door isn't the worlds most polite spree murderer. Or a possum.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
