Susan Abel Sullivan's Blog, page 9
December 21, 2013
Ghost of Christmas Gifts Past--aka Let's Give See-Through Lingerie to Little Girls
Every Christmas Eve Day my family would make what seemed like a tremendously long drive along the back roads from Montgomery, AL to Gadsden, AL to meet up with my dad's large, wacky family for their annual Christmas Eve Party.
We'd review everyone's name in the car and it was like reciting Santa's reindeer with a country twist: Aunt Tootsie, Aunt Dixie, Aunt Fredda, Aunt Emmer, Aunt NeeNee, Aunt Sarah, Aunt Frances, Uncle Ernest, Uncle Frank and Uncle Skeeter. And then all of the cousins: Wayne, Kay, Shannon, Brent, P.D., Larry, Rebecca, and Neil. To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now dash away, dash away, dash away all.
And like jolly old elves the aunts and uncles were lively and merry and lavished us with food, drink, and gifts. The cousins would run around Aunt NeeNee's house like animals let loose from their cages (one of my mother's favorite phrases) or head out to play with Aunt NeeNee's three-legged dog, Moose.
And it was great. Until . . .
Someone would give me and my little sister see-through pajamas or a see-through nightie as our Christmas gift. Did they not realize that we were little kids? Oh, the mortification! I'd hold up the embarrassing item; it would always look more like something a grown woman would wear than a little girl. Of course, the aunts were all much older than my dad and he was in his late 30s. But still, how hard is it to pick age-appropriate gifts for children?
"Try it on!" the aunts and uncles would holler. "We want to see if it fits." They'd roar with laughter and I'd shake my head no. No way was I trying on see-through stuff in front of everyone. Ick! Triple ick! They were probably all kidding, but still, I just wanted to melt into the area rug.
These garments were also always made of flammable material. It said so right on the tag. FLAMMABLE. And considering I set my plastic trash can on fire for kicks once, the last thing I needed was flammable, see-through sleepwear.
Ah, the ghosts of Christmas Gifts Past...gotta love 'em.
We'd review everyone's name in the car and it was like reciting Santa's reindeer with a country twist: Aunt Tootsie, Aunt Dixie, Aunt Fredda, Aunt Emmer, Aunt NeeNee, Aunt Sarah, Aunt Frances, Uncle Ernest, Uncle Frank and Uncle Skeeter. And then all of the cousins: Wayne, Kay, Shannon, Brent, P.D., Larry, Rebecca, and Neil. To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now dash away, dash away, dash away all.
And like jolly old elves the aunts and uncles were lively and merry and lavished us with food, drink, and gifts. The cousins would run around Aunt NeeNee's house like animals let loose from their cages (one of my mother's favorite phrases) or head out to play with Aunt NeeNee's three-legged dog, Moose.
And it was great. Until . . .
Someone would give me and my little sister see-through pajamas or a see-through nightie as our Christmas gift. Did they not realize that we were little kids? Oh, the mortification! I'd hold up the embarrassing item; it would always look more like something a grown woman would wear than a little girl. Of course, the aunts were all much older than my dad and he was in his late 30s. But still, how hard is it to pick age-appropriate gifts for children?
"Try it on!" the aunts and uncles would holler. "We want to see if it fits." They'd roar with laughter and I'd shake my head no. No way was I trying on see-through stuff in front of everyone. Ick! Triple ick! They were probably all kidding, but still, I just wanted to melt into the area rug.
These garments were also always made of flammable material. It said so right on the tag. FLAMMABLE. And considering I set my plastic trash can on fire for kicks once, the last thing I needed was flammable, see-through sleepwear.
Ah, the ghosts of Christmas Gifts Past...gotta love 'em.
December 19, 2013
I lost my pet snake in my husband's car
I lost my pet kingsnake in the dash of my husband's Pontiac Sunfire.
We were coming home from a vet visit. Steve (short for Stephen Kingsnake) traveled in a pillowcase tied with a ribbon. This is actually a recommended and inexpensive travel container because a pillowcase allows oxygen flow, but keeps the snake calm because they can't see through the fabric. However, after the vet had seen Steve, I didn't tie the ribbon tight enough. And as I was driving home, unbeknownst to me, Steve slithered through the slack and disappeared into the dash of my husband's car.
I discovered his escape when I drove into the driveway and picked up an empty pillowcase on the passenger seat. A search of the small Sunfire yielded nada.
I spent the next couple of hours lying on my back in the driver's side footwell with my knees bent and my feet on the driver's seat shining a flashlight up into the bowels of the dash. No snake. And it's not exactly like you can call a snake and it'll come to you. Snakes have vestigial ears; they can't hear a thing.
Man, what a bitch! I'd just lost one of my three cats to bone marrow cancer a few days before and now my pet snake was LOST, too???? How in the hell was I going to get him out? Could he get out of the car by crawling through the engine? Was I ever going to see him again???
When I told the hubs what had happened, he said, "Um, you're driving MY car from now on. I don't want a snake popping out on me."
A week went by with no sign of Stephen Kingsnake. I figured he must have been able to exit the dash via the car's underbelly and had probably slithered off into the neighborhood. Boy, was I ever bummed out. I loved that snake. He and I were buds. After several days of not finding a snake anywhere in the car, I figured he was either gone or had died.
So it came as a complete surprise when I was driving home from work and Steve pops out of the dash near my feet as I'm doing 65 mph on the interstate in the CHICAGO area.
And when I say popped out, he POPPED out. Exactly like you see in the movies where a snake drops down onto an unsuspecting passerby in the jungle. Except this was from underneath the dash in a Pontiac Sunfire.
I had to make a blind grab for him since I was in the middle lane and going way too fast to look away from the road more than a couple of seconds or pull over. But I got lucky and nabbed the five-foot long Houdini way down near my feet.
So there I was rocketing along the interstate driving a STICK SHIFT one handed while holding onto a snake with the other hand. Because if I let go, I'd probably never see him again.
I had to shift gears with my left hand and steer at the same time, but I managed to veer onto my exit without causing a crash. As I gently tugged on Steve, he began to release his hold on the innards of the dash and I wound him around my right forearm.
Because, you see, I had no way to contain him other than holding him. It was just me and him and my purse (too small) and the car. And boy did he ever smell bad! A pungent, sour odor.
Snakes don't usually have any odor, but when badly frightened, some snakes will emit a noxious scent to deter predators. I was guessing that Steve had had the week from snake hell. No water, no heat rock or sun lamp, and he'd had to endure the terrifying vibrations of the car as I drove to and from work for a week.
Really, I was surprised he was still alive after all that.
But he went on to live another twelve years to the ripe old age of twenty, which is pretty old for a kingsnake.
The King (snake) and I
We were coming home from a vet visit. Steve (short for Stephen Kingsnake) traveled in a pillowcase tied with a ribbon. This is actually a recommended and inexpensive travel container because a pillowcase allows oxygen flow, but keeps the snake calm because they can't see through the fabric. However, after the vet had seen Steve, I didn't tie the ribbon tight enough. And as I was driving home, unbeknownst to me, Steve slithered through the slack and disappeared into the dash of my husband's car.
I discovered his escape when I drove into the driveway and picked up an empty pillowcase on the passenger seat. A search of the small Sunfire yielded nada.
I spent the next couple of hours lying on my back in the driver's side footwell with my knees bent and my feet on the driver's seat shining a flashlight up into the bowels of the dash. No snake. And it's not exactly like you can call a snake and it'll come to you. Snakes have vestigial ears; they can't hear a thing.
Man, what a bitch! I'd just lost one of my three cats to bone marrow cancer a few days before and now my pet snake was LOST, too???? How in the hell was I going to get him out? Could he get out of the car by crawling through the engine? Was I ever going to see him again???
When I told the hubs what had happened, he said, "Um, you're driving MY car from now on. I don't want a snake popping out on me."
A week went by with no sign of Stephen Kingsnake. I figured he must have been able to exit the dash via the car's underbelly and had probably slithered off into the neighborhood. Boy, was I ever bummed out. I loved that snake. He and I were buds. After several days of not finding a snake anywhere in the car, I figured he was either gone or had died.
So it came as a complete surprise when I was driving home from work and Steve pops out of the dash near my feet as I'm doing 65 mph on the interstate in the CHICAGO area.
And when I say popped out, he POPPED out. Exactly like you see in the movies where a snake drops down onto an unsuspecting passerby in the jungle. Except this was from underneath the dash in a Pontiac Sunfire.
I had to make a blind grab for him since I was in the middle lane and going way too fast to look away from the road more than a couple of seconds or pull over. But I got lucky and nabbed the five-foot long Houdini way down near my feet.
So there I was rocketing along the interstate driving a STICK SHIFT one handed while holding onto a snake with the other hand. Because if I let go, I'd probably never see him again.
I had to shift gears with my left hand and steer at the same time, but I managed to veer onto my exit without causing a crash. As I gently tugged on Steve, he began to release his hold on the innards of the dash and I wound him around my right forearm.
Because, you see, I had no way to contain him other than holding him. It was just me and him and my purse (too small) and the car. And boy did he ever smell bad! A pungent, sour odor.
Snakes don't usually have any odor, but when badly frightened, some snakes will emit a noxious scent to deter predators. I was guessing that Steve had had the week from snake hell. No water, no heat rock or sun lamp, and he'd had to endure the terrifying vibrations of the car as I drove to and from work for a week.
Really, I was surprised he was still alive after all that.
But he went on to live another twelve years to the ripe old age of twenty, which is pretty old for a kingsnake.
The King (snake) and I
December 18, 2013
A Holiday Ditty Cleo Tidwell Style
To get into the spirit of the holidays, I've composed a little ditty inspired by my Cleo Tidwell paranormal mystery series.
(Sung to the tune: "The Twelve Days of Christmas"
On the first day of Christmas, Bertram gave to me:
a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 2nd day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 3rd day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 4th day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
four crazy kooks, three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 5th day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
five...BIG weredogs...
four crazy kooks, three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 6th day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
six trips to Graceland, five...BIG weredogs...four crazy kooks, three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 7th day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
seven weresharks swimming, six trips to Graceland, five...BIG weredogs...four crazy kooks, three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 8th day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
eight shades of Elvis, seven weresharks swimming, six trips to Graceland, five...BIG weredogs...four crazy kooks, three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 9th day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
nine redneck mermaids, eight shades of Elvis, seven weresharks swimming, six trips to Graceland, five...BIG weredogs...four crazy kooks, three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 10th day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
ten vampire hookers, nine redneck mermaids, eight shades of Elvis, seven weresharks swimming, six trips to Graceland, five...BIG weredogs...four crazy kooks, three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 11th day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
eleven spaceship rentals, ten vampire hookers, nine redneck mermaids, eight shades of Elvis, seven weresharks swimming, six trips to Graceland, five...BIG weredogs...four crazy kooks, three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes, and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
On the 12th day of Xmas, Bertram gave to me:
twelve deep-fried zombies, eleven spaceship rentals, ten vampire hookers, nine redneck mermaids, eight shades of Elvis, seven weresharks swimming, six trips to Graceland, five...BIG weredogs...four crazy kooks, three Krispy Kremes, two majorettes...and a Velvet Elvis with a shopping spree.
Happy Holidays, Y'all, from Cleo and Bertram Tidwill of Allister, Alabama!
December 17, 2013
Weredog Whisperer Giveaway Ending Soon
Enter to win one of two free Advanced Reading Copies of my newest novel The Weredog Whisperer at Goodreads. Click on the link below to enter. Giveway ends in less than fourteen hours. Novel officially released on December 31, 2013. Although Weredog Whisperer is the second book in my Cleo Tidwell paranormal mystery series, the book can be read as a stand alone novel.
https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/73565-the-weredog-whisperer
Enter now to win a chance at a FREE copy!
December 16, 2013
Don't Pass Your Chickens Over the Fence
Childhood trauma can be super dramatic like getting kidnapped by a killer clown for a week (or forever) or it can be doled out in smaller doses of horrifying moments. My earliest memory is one of trauma. The big kids across the street locked me in their laundry room with the lights off and left me there. Even worse, they mashed my little fingers in the door as they were shoving me in and I was trying to get out.
I was only two years old.
My dad found me and took me home. How he knew I was across the street and in the laundry room in the back of the Barksdale home, I don't know. I was so shaken, all I could do was sob. Plus my mashed fingers hurt like a son of a bitch.
When I was a little older--maybe four or five--the kid next door passed his pet chicken over the fence so that I could hold it. His name was John (the boy, not the chicken) and he was eleven. He seemed like a teenager to me.
I'd never held a chicken before and was so excited to have the chance. The chicken was excited, too. Oops! Make that EXCITABLE. It flapped its wings in my face and startled me into dropping it. It hit the ground running. My German Shepherd then became very excited and chased Mr. Chicken down.
You can probably guess what happened next.
My dog killed that chicken. Ripped it apart.
It all happened so fast. One minute I was holding a super cool pet chicken and the next it was nothing but blood, guts, and feathers strewn across the backyard.
But you know what the worst part was?
I ran inside to tell my mom what had happened. She told me to go clean it up. Didn't come outside. Didn't say anything to the neighbor kid. Didn't console me. Just "Go clean it up."
So there I was, four-years old, trying to clean up chicken innards and feeling like the whole thing had been my fault. It was distressing to see a chicken's HEART (I had no idea it would look like a red ping pong ball.) But really, in my defense, the kid next door should never have passed his pet chicken over the fence to a preschooler with a big dog in the yard. I'm sorry, but that's just a no brainer in my book when you're eleven.
And to top it off, the rest of the "big kids" on the street badgered me about killing John's chicken for weeks afterward. "Why did you let your dog kill John's chicken," they'd say.
My older self would have snarked back, "Hey, how about a little personal responsibility, people?"
But my four-year old self just stuttered some lame reply.
My next childhood trauma would also involve a bird, but this time it would be a much bigger bird--an ostrich.
I was only two years old.
My dad found me and took me home. How he knew I was across the street and in the laundry room in the back of the Barksdale home, I don't know. I was so shaken, all I could do was sob. Plus my mashed fingers hurt like a son of a bitch.
When I was a little older--maybe four or five--the kid next door passed his pet chicken over the fence so that I could hold it. His name was John (the boy, not the chicken) and he was eleven. He seemed like a teenager to me.
I'd never held a chicken before and was so excited to have the chance. The chicken was excited, too. Oops! Make that EXCITABLE. It flapped its wings in my face and startled me into dropping it. It hit the ground running. My German Shepherd then became very excited and chased Mr. Chicken down.
You can probably guess what happened next.
My dog killed that chicken. Ripped it apart.
It all happened so fast. One minute I was holding a super cool pet chicken and the next it was nothing but blood, guts, and feathers strewn across the backyard.
But you know what the worst part was?
I ran inside to tell my mom what had happened. She told me to go clean it up. Didn't come outside. Didn't say anything to the neighbor kid. Didn't console me. Just "Go clean it up."
So there I was, four-years old, trying to clean up chicken innards and feeling like the whole thing had been my fault. It was distressing to see a chicken's HEART (I had no idea it would look like a red ping pong ball.) But really, in my defense, the kid next door should never have passed his pet chicken over the fence to a preschooler with a big dog in the yard. I'm sorry, but that's just a no brainer in my book when you're eleven.
And to top it off, the rest of the "big kids" on the street badgered me about killing John's chicken for weeks afterward. "Why did you let your dog kill John's chicken," they'd say.
My older self would have snarked back, "Hey, how about a little personal responsibility, people?"
But my four-year old self just stuttered some lame reply.
My next childhood trauma would also involve a bird, but this time it would be a much bigger bird--an ostrich.
December 15, 2013
Who the hell is Annalee and why has she taken over the house?
a small fraction of my Annalee Christmas collection Annalee: a line of felt dolls and animals with hand painted faces originally made in New Hampshire. Not to be confused with Annabelle, a creepy doll possessed by a demonic spirit.
You can tell it's Christmas at Casa Sullivan when the Annalee dolls take over the dining room. This year they've overflowed into the front parlor. I hadn't realized how many I had accumulated until I took them all out of storage. The long dining room table that can seat nine was COVERED with Annalee.
Me to hubs: Uh, look how many Annalee we have this year. I think I have a problem (as in, I've become a crazy collector/hoarder.)
Hubs: You think? (He wasn't amused, which is ironic since he's such an enabler and has even bought a bunch of the Annalee for me.)
Me: I don't know if I'm going to have enough room to display them all.
Hubs: Maybe you should stopping buying them?
Me; I blame my genes. My mom does stuff like this, too.
Hubs: *shakes his head*
Me: It could be worse Remember the Russ troll dolls I used to collect? And I read about a woman who has almost 800 Steiff animals.
Hubs: Eight HUNDRED????
Me: Hey, if I get that many, we'll open up a museum.
Hubs: I need some aspirin (for the headache I'm giving him.)
Some women collect handbags, some jewelry, some shoes. I collect animals.
I'm sure a psychiatrist could tell me why I have this need to collect and surround myself with animals both alive and artistic representations. Not only do I collect the holiday Annalee animals, but there are the antique Steiff that have recently taken over the house. And the master bedroom is decorated with a cat theme. The downstairs is decorated in a bear theme. The kitchen used to be pig themed. And then we have the "Cat Room" upstairs that is just for the cats--no dogs allowed.
In my defense, I did read somewhere that people who collect things have a higher IQ than people who don't. Although, I've seen collections that would challenge that notion.
But here's the ultimate irony along the lines of the pot calling the kettle black: the hubs collects Christmas village miniatures. His village is still in the process of being set up, but I'll post pictures once he has it finalized. In the meantime, here are some photos of the Christmas Annalee.
Click on each picture to enlarge:
December 14, 2013
Hi Yo Flamingo???
Nothing says Christmas like an Elf on a Flamingo...surrounded by dogs. Happy Day 14 of Advent, y'all!
December 13, 2013
Pet Porn and Confused Critters
Moxie and Ernie: pet porn??? Okay, I'll say right off the bat that this photo is NOT pet porn!
Ernie, however, is a very confused kitty. He's NURSING on our American Pit Bull Terrier, Moxie. Moxie had her last litter of pups (at the animal shelter) October of 2006. This picture was made late summer/early fall of 2011. So Moxie didn't even have any milk for Ernie to nurse. But she did have some bodaciously large nipples from all the puppies she had birthed during her previous life before we adopted her.
But giant nipples aside, Moxie looks nothing like a cat. And she smells like 100% dog. We even have four female cats that Ernie could have chosen for surrogate moms. But Ernie wanted Moxie. Kinda reminds me of Babe the Sheep Pig who took up with a litter of border collies in the movie BABE. If someone made a movie about our Not-So-Little Ernie Hemingway, it could be titled: Ernie, the American Pit Bull Maine Coon Kitty. Yeah, I know, it's a long title.
Ernie is all grown up now, but he STILL tries to nurse on Moxie from time to time. "You're too grown up for this," she tells him with a growl. But she WILL lick Ernie's privates clean, so I guess he's not too old for THAT! It's a service she's willing to provide for all of our felines.
The cats actually "ask" her to do it by walking up to her face and turning their backsides to her. She gladly obliges probably hoping some delectable kitty poop will pop out from their butts like candy from a gumball machine. Anyone with dogs and cats knows that cat poop is considered a delicacy to dogs.
Cat poop and cat on dog porn--just another kooky day at Casa Sullivan.
December 12, 2013
Goodreads Giveaway: The Weredog Whisperer
Only five more days left to enter the Goodreads Giveaway for my forthcoming novel
The Weredog Whisperer,
the second book in the Cleo Tidwell Paranormal Mystery series. My publisher is giving away TWO copies--count 'em, two--copies of the book, and if you win, you'll receive your copy BEFORE the book's release date: December 31, 2013.
Click on this link to find out more and enter. No purchase necessary, no first born children required.
https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/73565-the-weredog-whisperer
I'll also be performing a dramatic reading for the book on Monday, January 27 at the Jacksonville, Alabama Public Library at 5:30 PM and will have copies of both Weredog Whisperer and Haunted Housewives to sign and sell. And we may just have to sing "Fried Zombie Dee-light!" again, too.
These books make GREAT gifts for yourself and others and I also have two short story collections on eBook available, too.
Weredog Whisperer and Haunted Housewives will be/are available in both eBook and trade paperback from retailers like Books-A-Million, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com, and Kobo.
Enter now for your chance to win big!
Books are inexpensive adventures to new places without the fear of losing your luggage!
Click on this link to find out more and enter. No purchase necessary, no first born children required.
https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/73565-the-weredog-whisperer
I'll also be performing a dramatic reading for the book on Monday, January 27 at the Jacksonville, Alabama Public Library at 5:30 PM and will have copies of both Weredog Whisperer and Haunted Housewives to sign and sell. And we may just have to sing "Fried Zombie Dee-light!" again, too.
These books make GREAT gifts for yourself and others and I also have two short story collections on eBook available, too.
Weredog Whisperer and Haunted Housewives will be/are available in both eBook and trade paperback from retailers like Books-A-Million, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com, and Kobo.
Enter now for your chance to win big!
Books are inexpensive adventures to new places without the fear of losing your luggage!
December 11, 2013
This Could Only Happen to Me: a trip to the ER after getting bitten by a rat in the pet store and passing out
Words of wisdom: NEVER stick your hand inside the habitat of a mama rat no matter WHAT the pet store people tell you.
My college dorm didn't allow pets, so of course I wanted a pet rat because they were small, quiet, smart, and easy to hide should the resident advisor come around.
The pet store employee told me they had a new litter of baby rats and to go in the back of the store and pick out the ones I wanted. Alone. Unsupervised. Pet Store rule #1: don't leave customers unsupervised in the back of the store.
The baby rats were sooooo cute. There were about ten to twelve of them in a large aquarium with their mama. Since the employee had told me to pick out a pet, I naturally assumed the mother rat was friendly.
Wrongo Bongo.
I reached into that habitat and the mama bit the stink out of my ring finger. I mean, she latched right on and was ready to rumble. The pain was bright like the sun going supernova and I reacted out of instinct and shook the poor rat off my hand like a terrier. I hated to do that to an animal, but dang, her giant rodent teeth were sunk into my finger.
I held up my wounded hand to see how bad the bite was and blood welled up from my knuckle and dripped onto the floor. The sight of the blood woozed me out and next thing I knew I was falling backwards, my left arm whacking several wire cages on the way down and I fell full out, smacking the back of my head on the hard concrete floor.
I came to with the pet store employee leaning over me. "Are you all right? What happened?"
"The rat bit me." My watch had been sliced right off my wrist during the fall.
Now, here was the amazing part. No first aid was administered, no accident report filled out, no discount offered, and me being young and naïve had no idea that I could scare the bejeezus out of the store manager by threatening a law suit over wrongful injury and misadventure in their store. Like a good little Southern girl I paid for my rats and left with a BITE wound and a big BUMP on my skull.
And then my finger swelled up. Like a sausage. Which wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been wearing my class ring. My finger was so big the ring was cutting into my flesh. Off to the ER I went.
These days doctors have to report animal bites of any kind to law enforcement. But this was back in the mid-80s. The ER doc looked at my giant finger. "We're going to have to cut your ring off."
"Just get it OFF! I don't care how you do it." I wouldn't normally talk that way to a doctor, but I was feeling desperate and quite anxious.
He cut the ring off. I still have it. Never got it fixed. It reminds me of what a naïve dumbass I was. And you should have seen the look on everone's face when they read my paperwork.
Reason for Visit: Bitten by rat in pet store.
They probably thought the place was infested by rats or something. It's amazing they didn't call fhe HEALTH DEPARMENT.
I was given antibiotics and sent home with my giant finger, ruined ring and a major life lesson. That knuckle was stiff and swollen for quite some time. It's amazing I didn't get sepsis in the joint. My dad was bitten (accidentally) by one of his dogs once and his hand swelled up and he had to go to the ER for sepsis (a serious bacterial infection).
The name of this post is "This Could Only Happen to Me," but now that I think about it, this could have happened to my sister. A basset hound bit her face when she was three, and when she was seven she got a nail stuck in her foot AND fell on some bleachers and cut her shin open to the BONE. She also fell off a ladder onto the high heel of a SHOE when she was working in a shoe store. So, this seems to be a genetic propensity--weird-ass accidents.
Oh, and then there's my brother who got a stick rammed down his throat and his leg sliced open by barnacles and who coughed so hard one time that he ruptured a lung. And my dad whose arm swelled up from wasp stings.
Lordy, it's amazing we've survived to pass on our genes.
My college dorm didn't allow pets, so of course I wanted a pet rat because they were small, quiet, smart, and easy to hide should the resident advisor come around.
The pet store employee told me they had a new litter of baby rats and to go in the back of the store and pick out the ones I wanted. Alone. Unsupervised. Pet Store rule #1: don't leave customers unsupervised in the back of the store.
The baby rats were sooooo cute. There were about ten to twelve of them in a large aquarium with their mama. Since the employee had told me to pick out a pet, I naturally assumed the mother rat was friendly.
Wrongo Bongo.
I reached into that habitat and the mama bit the stink out of my ring finger. I mean, she latched right on and was ready to rumble. The pain was bright like the sun going supernova and I reacted out of instinct and shook the poor rat off my hand like a terrier. I hated to do that to an animal, but dang, her giant rodent teeth were sunk into my finger.
I held up my wounded hand to see how bad the bite was and blood welled up from my knuckle and dripped onto the floor. The sight of the blood woozed me out and next thing I knew I was falling backwards, my left arm whacking several wire cages on the way down and I fell full out, smacking the back of my head on the hard concrete floor.
I came to with the pet store employee leaning over me. "Are you all right? What happened?"
"The rat bit me." My watch had been sliced right off my wrist during the fall.
Now, here was the amazing part. No first aid was administered, no accident report filled out, no discount offered, and me being young and naïve had no idea that I could scare the bejeezus out of the store manager by threatening a law suit over wrongful injury and misadventure in their store. Like a good little Southern girl I paid for my rats and left with a BITE wound and a big BUMP on my skull.
And then my finger swelled up. Like a sausage. Which wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been wearing my class ring. My finger was so big the ring was cutting into my flesh. Off to the ER I went.
These days doctors have to report animal bites of any kind to law enforcement. But this was back in the mid-80s. The ER doc looked at my giant finger. "We're going to have to cut your ring off."
"Just get it OFF! I don't care how you do it." I wouldn't normally talk that way to a doctor, but I was feeling desperate and quite anxious.
He cut the ring off. I still have it. Never got it fixed. It reminds me of what a naïve dumbass I was. And you should have seen the look on everone's face when they read my paperwork.
Reason for Visit: Bitten by rat in pet store.
They probably thought the place was infested by rats or something. It's amazing they didn't call fhe HEALTH DEPARMENT.
I was given antibiotics and sent home with my giant finger, ruined ring and a major life lesson. That knuckle was stiff and swollen for quite some time. It's amazing I didn't get sepsis in the joint. My dad was bitten (accidentally) by one of his dogs once and his hand swelled up and he had to go to the ER for sepsis (a serious bacterial infection).
The name of this post is "This Could Only Happen to Me," but now that I think about it, this could have happened to my sister. A basset hound bit her face when she was three, and when she was seven she got a nail stuck in her foot AND fell on some bleachers and cut her shin open to the BONE. She also fell off a ladder onto the high heel of a SHOE when she was working in a shoe store. So, this seems to be a genetic propensity--weird-ass accidents.
Oh, and then there's my brother who got a stick rammed down his throat and his leg sliced open by barnacles and who coughed so hard one time that he ruptured a lung. And my dad whose arm swelled up from wasp stings.
Lordy, it's amazing we've survived to pass on our genes.
