So last Thursday was an interesting day. I was dog-sitting for a 13-year-old jack russell terrier (Charlotte), and a 10-month-old sato (Oliver), staying at a lovely home high in the hills, with a beautiful view of the Caribbean. My Evie was there with me, of course. She loves any opportunity to play with another dog. I let the dogs out in the morning, as per usual, and started to get ready for work. After a few moments, I hear a disturbance. "Bawk bawk bawk bawk BAWK! BAWK BAWK BAWK!!!" I step outside, and see a mother hen with her adolescent chicks trucking through the yard at good speed. They're almost out, so I figure everything is fine. I go back to my routine.
About 20 minutes later, I step outside and call the dogs in to breakfast. Nothing. Usually they come running. Curious. I step further out, and see Oliver with one of the adolescent chicks draped across his front paws, looking quite pleased with himself. "Oliver! Leave it!" Oliver, being an obedient dog, does as he is told and comes into the house. My dog, not being an obedient dog, starts sneaking toward the chicken. I look over, and see the poor wee thing flutter its wing. Hope! I might be able to save it! "Evie! Come!" With a gleeful look over her shoulder, she says to me 'Ha ha! I'm faster than you!" She runs, snatches the chicken by its neck, and takes off down the hill. Fuck. I'm now running down the hill after her, shrieking, wearing only a robe. Why do these things always seem to happen when I'm not fully clothed? I chase her for 20 minutes, and finally give up. At this point I'm standing out on the balcony, looking down at my adorable dog chewing on this chicken (now dead) and hearing the bones snap. I almost lose my breakfast.
I continue getting ready for my day, and just before I have to leave, decide to give separating my dog from the chicken one more try. I sneak up on her, and manage to corner her. When my dog is cornered, her response is to flop over on her back so I can rub her belly. I step over the dead chicken, scoop up the dog, and carry her inside. At this point, I'm about to be late for work, so I shut and lock the door, jump in my car, and take off - leaving the chicken to bake in the tropical sun all day.
During the day I e-mail the owners of the house. The e-mail goes something like this:
John and Chris -
I hope you are enjoying your vacation!
Sorry to bug you, but our dogs killed a chicken.
Do you have a shovel?
At about 5pm, I head home from work, locate the shovel, and set off down the hill to recover the chicken. The chicken is now in full rigor mortis, stripped of feathers, with one foot missing. Foul. And fowl. Ugh. I pick it up with the shovel, carry it across the street, and fling it into the vacant lot there. I pause for a moment to honor the life of this little being untimely cut short. And to realize that I just disposed of a dead chicken on my own. A year ago, I couldn't have done that. Now - time to go unwind with friends in their pool and drink some wine!
At about 9pm I return home, let the dogs out, and then jump in the shower to rinse off the chlorine. I feel something on my ankle, and assume it must be the shower curtain brushing up against me. I look down. It's a fucking palmetto bug. You have GOT to be kidding me. What a day. I shriek, shake it off my leg, and start splashing it with water, thinking I can drown it. Wishful thinking, Gillian. It hurtles toward me across the floor of the shower (on foot, not flying, thank god). I jump over it and continue splashing. The fucking bug turns in mid-stride and comes back toward me. I jump over it again. And again, it whips around and heads toward me. The fucking palmetto bug is chasing me! This happens four or five times, my screams getting louder each time. I finally jump out of the shower and run dripping wet into the kitchen.
At this point, the palmetto bug is thoroughly soaked and unable to fly. I think I can grab the 34 paper towels, drop them on top, punch it, and end this ordeal. I walk back into the bathroom, execute my plan - and the bug runs out from underneath the paper towels, straight at me again!
Ok, you piece of shit. Fine. You wanna play that way? I'll play. I run back to the kitchen and rummage under the sink. No TAT to be found, but I do come up with a spray can of air freshener. That'll do.
Back into the bathroom, I unleash the spray onto this thing as it rockets around the shower. Instead of screaming obscenities at it (my usual MO), I start to sing. I obviously can't re-create the tune here, but the lyrics go something like this:
Right now would be
a good time to die
For about two minutes, I sing to it, repeating the phrase, unloading half the spray can. Finally it seizures, flips over, and dies. Back in the kitchen, I grab 34 more paper towels, drop them on top, punch (just to be sure it's really dead), and pick it up. I run to the kitchen, drop the dead insect in the trash can, tie up the bag, and go finish my shower.
I am the grim reaper for palmetto bugs. Enjoy your life now, you fuckers - because I am on a mission to take out the entire species, one by one.
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